The Helsinki Pact

by Alex Cugia

  “Something to drink before you eat? We’ve been fortunate to get a few more cases of that Elbthal Weissburgunder you liked so much, Mr Wundart. Perhaps a bottle of that?”

  Bettina’s chair crashed to the floor she stood up in fury. Ignoring the startled glances from other diners she dashed the contents of her water glass in Thomas’s face and would have upended everything from the table in his lap had he not managed to stop her fierce movements.

  “Student? Student! You bastard! Your favourite wine! Your favourite table at East Berlin’s most expensive restaurant! Is that how you try to impress the girls you pick up? Booking this before you even turned up at the Museum is so fucking sordid. How do you think that makes me feel? I’d begun to think you were different but you’re just the same as the others – think all you need do is flash your money and the knickers fall off. Well, fuck you!”

  As she stormed past Thomas grabbed her arm.

  “Bettina, please. Please sit down. I swear you’re the only girl I’ve ever brought into this place.” He lowered his voice. “They know me because of the tours.”

  Bettina glared at him and shook her arm furiously in his grip. “Let me go! You're hurting me! Tours? What are you talking about? What tours?”

  “I show people round East Berlin, show them the sights. I get them seats at the opera with dinner beforehand – that’s usually here and that’s why they know me. I’m not rich. I need money and this helps me pay for my studies and my singing lessons. They treat me well here because I bring them customers. That’s all. Believe me, it’s the first time I’ve ever come privately. And I wasn’t trying to be smart or show off or anything like that. I just thought, well, I suppose I thought we’d both like it, the food and the atmosphere. And I wanted to be here with you." There was a pause. "And, yes, well, yes, I guess maybe a little bit I did want to impress you.”

  Thomas had released his grip and during this disjointed appeal Bettina had righted her chair and slowly sunk down on it, movements which gave Thomas some hope. “God, let me not screw it up again, don’t let me say the wrong thing now.” he thought. He took off his jacket, pushed back into the side pocket a handkerchief and packet of cigarettes which had fallen out during the struggle, and hung the garment over his chair. He sat down again and looked warily at her.

  “I can’t stand rich Wessies looking down on us, trying to buy their way into everything and everyone.”

  He looked at her again, trying to work out if there was something more behind her violent reaction. Her otherwise perfectly straight nose curled slightly at the tip and her clear, smooth skin had acquired a healthy pink tinge, slightly flushed with red. He thought how beautiful she looked and how desirable her anger had made her to him. If he’d dared he might have told her so but her reaction just then had awed him with its vehemence. She was clearly still prickly and suspicious and he was afraid that an incautious remark would sent her storming off into the night, out of his reach for ever.

  She rearranged the cutlery in front of her, lining up the bases of the knives and forks in a straight line, adjusting them minutely. “So what do you show these people in your tours? How we survive despite our bad choice in being here in the first place?" She pulled a face and spoke in a pantomime voice. "Look, Commies can be almost human! Just fancy!”

  “It depends. They’re mainly interested in seeing places connected to escapes from East Berlin. Checkpoint Charlie, Spy’s bridge, the Wall, obviously – those kinds of placesthat kind of thing. But I hardly do any general tours now, it’s nearly all opera or opera and dinner, maybe sometimes a gallery or a museum. This way I not only get to hear opera most weeks, twice a week often, but I get paid for it.”

  “And I sometimes get to eat in restaurants like this one which I could never afford otherwise, even at special prices.” he added cautiously, just as Axel arrived to welcome them. He introduced them.

  “I was telling Bettina about the tours, Axel, and how they love eating here before going on to the opera. It’s a beautiful building and great food and, well, I suppose … ” he ploughed on, realising that he was risking another outburst from Bettina “ … I suppose they’re sometimes a bit surprised at how good it all is, not what they’ve been led to expect the East is like.”

  Bettina laughed, glanced at Axel who was opening a bottle of Elbthaler Weissburgunder which he’d brought as a gift, and said “Ah, the decadent, ignorant West. They think it’s all queues, food shortages, old clothes and nothing but black bread to eat and thin beer to drink, eh Axel?”

  Thomas relaxed and under the influence of the wine became expansive, amusing Bettina with some highlights of the tours but then finding himself telling her more than he’d intended, almost boasting about his success and realising at one point that the figures didn’t add up at the official exchange rates, hurrying on so that she wouldn’t notice the slip. Bettina drank very little, he noticed, even asking for water at one point. She also congratulated him on the wine, commenting on his apparent knowledge of the wine industry in Saxony and for a while they ate in companionable silence or made small talk, sometimes even eating from each other’s plates.

  “Santé, to a decadent, capitalistic evening! Now tell me more about yourself, Wessie. What are your dreams, apart from becoming a millionaire, of course?”

  “I’m an economics student, as I told you, but opera’s my real passion and I intend to become a professional singer. I’ve had real battles with my parents over this. Both of them said that musicians never made any money, that music was fine as a hobby but that was all. They insisted I study economics and be as successful as my father had been. I resisted that for a while but in the end I thought that economics was maybe OK as a kind of security blanket thing, something I could always fall back on. So right now I’m trying to do both, which is difficult, but it’s music that I really love.”

  “Is your family supporting you?”

  “That would require a long answer, but the short one is no. I make some money doing gigs, you know like piano bar kind of stuff. From Billy Joel to Brecht. Unfortunately the pianist I used to work with just left the city a month ago.. My father’s dead now and my mother and I don’t really get on that well. I guess I escaped to Berlin and I have to make my own way.”

  The more the conversation flowed the easier it seemed and the more brilliant it appeared to become to Thomas. They found they shared a passion for music, for Russian literature and for more besides. Thomas was becoming obsessed with Bettina but unsure just how she felt about him as he sensed a wariness, a kind of ‘this far but no further’ tension in her. She refused a brandy and as he glanced at his watch he realised that it was nearly time to meet Mark.

  “Bettina, I’m sorry, but it’s getting kind of late and I have to go. I have to meet a friend, just someone who sometimes helps me get the opera tickets. Excuse me for a minute while I settle the bill at the desk.”

  She got up as he returned.

  “I must ring my mother. She sometimes gets a little worried if she knows I’m out and it’s getting late. Is there a telephone here, do you know?” He indicated the booth down a corridor.

  Some minutes later they met near the door, Thomas with her leather jacket draped over his arm. The streets had been washed by a sudden shower, and the lights reflected off the asphalt. There was a smell of damp earth as they walked along the river bank, the Spree gliding blackly on the other side of the low wall, and when Thomas took Bettina’s hand he found the warmth and slight pressure returned. They linked fingers. They crossed the Mühlendamm Bridge in silence and Bettina said softly, almost to herself, “Perhaps I shouldn’t admit it but it’s been a wonderful evening. Thank you.”

  “For me too. I loved being with you and I’m so sorry I have to leave early like this. But I’d like to see you again. Will you come to the opera with me? I have an old friend from Frankfurt and his girlfriend coming for the weekend tomorrow and we’re all going to see Fidelio. We could go then, perhaps.”

  “That would
be … , yes … , yes, that would be good. I’d like that. I’ll meet you outside at, what, 7.15 tomorrow evening?”

  Thomas reached his hand behind her neck and gently pulled her towards him, meeting little resistance. Nuzzling her neck he inhaled the light jasmine perfume of her skin. She leant into his shoulder for a moment and they stood in silence, pressing together, before she straightened and pushed him gently away.

  “No, Thomas ... I mustn't. Not now. Let's, let's just wait until, well, for a bit. I should go.” She looked at him, serious for a moment, started to say something but looked down and away. “Be careful.”

  She kissed him lightly and walked quickly in the direction of the museum. Thomas watched her disappear then hurried off for the Nikolaikirche, conscious that he would be late.

  It was drizzling slightly and the streets were deserted. Thomas found Mark pacing in front of the church, puffing nervously on an imported cigarette which he was just lighting from the end of his last one. He threw the butt down and ground it out with his shoe. Thomas walked towards him, discreetly giving the sign that he intended exchanging 300 DM into Ost Marks at the current black market rate of 15:1 and received acknowledgement from Mark.

  He took a pack of cigarettes from pocket, put one to his lips and, as stranger to stranger, asked Mark for a light. As he bowed his head to the match and inhaled he felt the acid rising from his stomach into his throat. Mark dropped his cigarette packet and Thomas courteously picked it up, palming and offering instead his own one with the Deutsche Marks inside and putting Mark’s identical package into his own pocket.

  “We need to talk.” Mark whispered. “Ten minutes. Sit on the bench behind the church.”

  Thomas walked on, glancing carefully around, scouting the surroundings for suspicious faces or followers. Most people seemed to be Western tourists admiring the buildings, the quaint houses rebuilt along the original mediaeval perimeter. There was a fog drifting in from the Spree and it felt clammy and cold. He reached the end of the street, threw away the cigarette in his hand, looked at a building as if admiring its design then turned and retraced his steps.

  Passing the bronze statue at the side of the double-domed church he found a bench, partly hidden in the shadows, where he checked the contents of his exchanged cigarette packet and found it short, 3,000 Ost Marks against the 4,500 he was expecting. In a moment Mark sat down and Thomas turned angrily to him. “What ... ”

  “Listen, Thomas.” Mark interrupted, his broad Sachsen accent thickening as Thomas had noticed it did at times of stress. “You’re a smart guy. That opera tickets and dinner deal you run is clever. But you can do a lot better … ”

  “I’ve never told you what I do.” Thomas stood up, furious but also apprehensive. “You’ve been spying on me! And I want the rest of my money. That packet was 1,500 short.”

  “Look, this is the East. It’s a police state. I take precautions. I have to. I need to know who I’m dealing with. Stasi agents play at being Western tourists exchanging currency like you do, black market currency. They reassure you and then when the sums get big enough they report you, have you arrested and make off with your money as well. That means five years in jail and I just don’t like to be fucked over.”

  Thomas sat down.

  “Look, Thomas, now that I know you’re OK I’ll trust you with a new deal. We can make a lot more money together.”

  The acid returned and Thomas felt naked and insecure. Someone had followed him closely enough to learn all about his opera tours and he hadn’t noticed. What else did he not know about?

  “Next time, bring your car in. I’ll show you where to hide stuff in it. Light drugs, nothing serious. Maryjane, hash, maybe some coke. People are depressed here and there’s a huge potential market.”

  “You’re out of your mind. And if I get caught? You’ll be clear but I’ll be thrown in jail here. No way am I risking that!”

  “It won’t happen. They’re not concerned about what comes in, only what goes out. They won’t search your car coming in, only when you leave but that’s to check you’re not helping any Ossies to escape. People do it all the time, even with heavier stuff. The KoKo supplies the upper crust and I’m targeting the middle classes.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Schalck-Golodkowski and his cronies. Kommerzielle Koordinierung, KoKo. They control everything that comes in, legal and otherwise. Anyway, that’s my problem. Get it in here and I’ll pay you ten times your costs. We’ll both do well out of it.”

  For a moment he was tempted. Perhaps Mark was right. Perhaps the risk was minimal and worth taking. The opera tours were good but this would solve any financial problems at a stroke, give him even more money for expensive singing lessons. He could finally sign up at the conservatory, perhaps even afford some advanced classes with Maestro Rufini. Or he could most likely rot in an East German jail for a decade or more.

  “Sorry Mark, that’s not me. I’m not getting into that racket. I won’t do it.”

  Mark stared at him for a few moments.

  “You’re a wimp. And a fool. I should turn you in – at least that would get me some credit. But I thought you might say that so that’s why I changed the rate today. If you’d agreed it would have been 15:1 but from now on it’s 10:1.

  “We agreed fifteen. I could have got fourteen from Dresdner Bank when I left West Berlin today. Now give me the fifteen we agreed. I gave you DM300 and I want my four and half thousand Ost Marks. Stop pissing about.”

  “3,000. Take it or leave it.”

  “Forty five hundred, nothing less. I could turn you in just as easily. Don’t think I won’t.”

  “It would really be very, very stupid if you tried that. OK. Just this once I’ll do it at twelve and a half. I’ve got the other seven fifty in the car over at Melchiorplatz. But remember, ten to one is the deal for everything now. I’m not interested at anything higher.”

  He set off and Thomas followed, still arguing. He was furious but knew that he had little choice but to accept the reduced rate, at least for now. He had to get over to the Ephraim Palais again to bank this latest lot of money and it was getting late. Oh, well, he thought, he knew where he could get better rates so he was probably well rid of Mark.

  Just as Mark opened the car door two men jumped out of an old grey Trabant parked slightly down the street on the opposite side and ran towards them shouting something which Thomas couldn’t properly understand.

  “Come on! Get in!” Mark glanced over, gesticulated at Thomas and jumped into the driver's seat starting the engine instantly.

  The car took off and swung round with a roar of the engine and a squeal of tyres, the force throwing Thomas back in his seat and almost tumbling him out of the still open door which swung madly before he caught and closed it. He looked back over his shoulder. One of the men had kneeled and was aiming a rifle towards them. Thomas ducked instinctively as he heard the gunshots in quick succession and the car swerved suddenly. He looked up to see Mark slumped over the wheel and as the engine roared again and the car plunged forward it smashed into a wall, jerking him hard against the windscreen, and he lost consciousness.

  Chapter 5

  Thursday September 14 and Friday September 15 1989

  STEPHAN struggled up the stairs as fast as he could in the teeming subway crowd, fretting at those in his way, muttering apologies on his frequent collisions, darting into fortuitous spaces as they opened up. Bursting on to Frankfurt’s Opernplatz he dodged past a phalanx of uniformed men, pin stripe suited and swinging identical briefcases in unison, men who walked briskly looking straight ahead to reassure themselves they had important tasks in hand. He sprinted through the Taunusanlage Park, closing on the twin towers of the Deutsche Bank. It was already 8.30.

  At the bank headquarters he pushed the revolving door hard, stumbled into the spacious entrance hall with its internal fountains and hanging crystal decorations, waved at the guard who nodded in recognition, and rushed for the mirrored wall hi
ding the lifts to the boardroom floors. A panel slid open as he arrived and he squeezed into the first cage just as its doors were closing. He greeted the others as usual but his glasses were fogged and he had no idea who was present. He felt hot and sticky, out of control, and cursed the subway company and its unreliability. There again, he thought wryly, perhaps he should have resisted taking that extra fifteen minutes in bed with Camille.

  He whirled into his office on the 30th floor, hurled his coat at a chair and tugged papers from his briefcase, ordering these quickly and handing them to his secretary to type. He rushed to his inner office and went over the contract documents once more in preparation for the imminent meeting with his boss, Alfred Herren, CEO of Deutsche Bank.

  At five to nine Stephan sank into a soft, dark leather armchair by Herren’s desk. He clutched the papers for the Board meeting which Lise had completed from his handwritten notes moments earlier. He’d had no time to review them, something he would ordinarily have done as Herren had an uncanny eye for detail and would pounce on any error. Fortunately Lise was one of the best secretaries in the company and he was confident she would have typed everything up correctly and laid it out neatly.

  “Good morning, Mr Fischer. Where are we on the Morgan Grenfell acquisition process? Any major changes since the last contract revision?”

  “I’ve summarised them here.” He handed a set of papers to Herren. “The two main changes relate to the guaranteed bonus payments, which have been reduced substantially, and the request that the CEO of Morgan Grenfell, Mr Ryan, take a board seat here in Frankfurt.”

  Stephan paused to watch Herren’s reaction to this apparent provocation. Since its founding in 1870 Deutsche Bank had never once admitted a foreigner to its board. The idea was unthinkable—Deutsche Bank was far more than simply a commercial bank but was intimately enmeshed with German industry, through mutual and interlocking directorships, and also with the German political establishment. No important economic decision was ever taken by the government without at least informal prior consultation with the bank, typically with the CEO himself.