The Helsinki Pact

by Alex Cugia

  "Maybe." said Spitze. "But my guess is not. Dieter's no fool and I'd doubt his assistants are either. She'll be talking with you Gerd and you need to be careful. What's our story going to be? Well, your story Gerd. You signed for it and it's your responsibility. You can't just say, Duh, it's vanished, must have been the tooth fairy took it. You, we, need a proper, watertight story that's going to convince Dieter, or at least hold him off for a few weeks. We need to work that out."

  "OK, OK. You're right. Look, I've got to go. I'm meeting someone. But I should be home by seven - give me a ring just after that, Rudi, or call round if you want, and we can finalise things then and sort any minor loose ends out in the office tomorrow. Don't worry. We're not going to trip up now. That money's ours. We've got it and we can hang on it, whatever Dieter think or tries."

  Putin fast forwarded over the sounds of Henkel leaving, of the remaining two collecting beers from Egon, and of a short discussion with one of Roehberg's junior staff who had called in with some papers to sign. Reaching the next trigger point he pressed Play and leant back, listening intently.

  "Damn right we're not going to trip up now!" The voice was Roehrberg's. "Sponden can lean on Dieter but you know what's Dieter's like. He'll just go his own way irrespective. He's like a fucking dachshund after a badger once he's picked up the scent, and he'll just keep at it - unless someone kills him first."

  The tape went quiet and Putin imagined the two men, alone in the café, looking at each other.

  "Unless someone kills him first." said Spitze slowly. "Unless someone kills Gerd first."

  "Think about it." he added. "Gerd kills himself. Leaves a note admitting his theft. Money's gone. No one knows where. We're clear."

  "Yeah, sure. But Gerd's an old friend. I like Gerd. Why not you? Why don't we have you steal it, you confess, you commit suicide. Same result. I could fix that."

  Spitze laughed. "I'm sure you could! And the same goes for you, Rudolf. You could have done it, better than me given your position. But Gerd, as Treasurer, is the most obvious candidate. He had the opportunity. All we need to do is construct a plausible motive."

  "And get someone reliable to do it. Don't forget that bit. Or are you offering?"

  There was another silence and then Roerhrberg spoke again. "I don't know. It's a good suggestion, but Gerd? I don't think so." He sighed heavily.

  "Ten million's a lot of money." said Spitze softly. "The expenses may go up a little, sure, but it'll now be shared two ways, not three. Think about it." There was the sound of a chair being scraped back and then further silence for several minutes until there were the sound of returning footsteps and of Spitze sitting down again. "Well?" he said.

  "I've thought of someone." said Roehrberg. "And at least Gerd hasn't any family, not like you, not even girlfriends like I have. God, I can't do that to him, though."

  "He brought it on himself." said Spitze, suddenly and harshly. "You don't know this but it wasn't really a proper investigative visit from Böhm at all. Gerd freaked out. I know because we talked, he was really nervous after he'd moved the money, said he was going to call Dieter and report it stolen. He said Böhm was suspicious, asking questions, and it would be better that way. I thought I'd calmed him, persuaded him just to hang on till the foreign trips when we'd be clear. Obviously not."

  Again there was silence broken again by a heavy sigh.

  "There's someone people call der Schlächter, the Butcher." said Roehrberg. "He does this and that for cover but he does other, well, specialist work as well, specialist contract work. He's discreet and efficient." He sighed again. "I don't like this but, OK, I'll call him. There's a safe phone outside."

  Again there was the sound of a chair being scraped, this time followed by the kneipe's outside door slamming shut. In a few minutes Roehrberg was back.

  "7.30." he said. "He comes to my house first and gets the letter and we finalise some details. I'll ring Gerd, say we've worked out a plan, that I'll send a friend over to explain how he can help and that I'll follow. But I can't go to see him. I can't. Not Gerd."

  The chair scraped back. "Fuck you, Spitze." he said fiercely, and strode rapidly out, slamming the door hard.

  Putin took off the headphones and looked at his watch. He picked up the desk telephone and dialled a number.

  "Herr Roehrberg, please. Major Putin."

  "Roehrberg!"

  "Rudi. It's Volodya. Look, something has come up and we need to talk about it. Spitze needs to be there too. It's about der Schlächter. And Henkel." He listened as the handset squawked.

  "I think you do, Rudi." he went on. "I think you know exactly what I'm talking about. I know about your talk with Spitze. We all know about what happened to Henkel later on Sunday. You see, I've got a copy of some interesting recordings and although I could get these to Berlin it would be better for both of us to hear my proposal."

  He listened again for a short while.

  "Yes, exactly. And of course I know about the money and the mill and all the other stuff that's going on. I just want my fair share of it, that's all, and maybe a bit extra to remember Henkel by. I'm sure you'll want to be generous when you hear what I have to say. Shall we say Egon's again in what, twenty minutes? Excellent! See you both at five, then. Oh, and Rudi. Remember I said a copy of interesting recordings - the original's quite safe. Quite safe and quite inaccessible to you, believe me."

  Chapter 35

  Wednesday January 17 1990, afternoon, evening and night

  “IF Georg won’t help us then we’ll do it ourselves! We can't risk asking around. We have to break in and just search the place."

  Bettina had returned to the farmhouse after her meeting with Georg, alternating between disappointment and fury with what she saw as his weakness in not being prepared to help. This wasn’t the Georg she remembered, the friend she’d idolised as a child for the way he stood up for the rights which were being trampled on, the fearless journalist whose clandestine writings had enraged the authorities by pointing up their many faults. 'Truth to power!' That's what he'd said then was the only course a concerned and committed citizen could honestly take. Look at him now!

  They lay on the bed and Thomas had tried to calm her but over an hour later she was still despondent and crossly upset at what she called Georg’s betrayal.

  “OK!” agreed Thomas. “I’m with you on that, but how do we do it? Do you think our master keys will work or will they have special locks there? What if people are working late? How do we find where the forged document is anyway? We don’t even know the date and it could be anywhere, according to what Georg told you.”

  For another hour they picked over the difficulties and how to overcome them. Bettina had learned from Georg that the cleaners came in at seven in the morning and that there was usually someone working late although rarely beyond about ten thirty in the evening. For safety they decided to break in shortly after midnight giving them, they hoped, about six hours to search. It wasn’t much but it was all they could risk. They’d have to make do and hope to strike lucky.

  By now it was late afternoon and winter dark and for a while they lay on the bed dozing lightly, newly comfortable in each other’s presence and watching the moon rise over the countryside beyond the window. At six they rose, washed the sleepiness out of their eyes and went downstairs to eat with Frau Dornbusch and her family.

  “Maybe our own last supper!” Thomas said, then winced as Bettina kicked him under the table. They smiled at each other and when the meal was finished went out for a short walk before returning to their room.

  “Let’s get our sleep in first – we’ll be pretty tired by the morning if it all works out.”

  Again they lay on the bed, fully dressed, entwined, and dozed fitfully until startled awake by the alarm. It was approaching midnight and time to set off. Grabbing the rucksack Thomas headed quietly downstairs followed by Bettina, each remembering to step over the third step from the top which creaked when anyone stood on it. They walked in si
lence to the car which they’d parked a little distance from the farmhouse.

  The archives building on Lothringerallee was a long rectangle of solid stone on four floors which dominated the street. The façade was imposing and loured ominously in the moonlight, the wide steps leading up to the solid front doors throwing deep shadows. Rough-cut blocks of limestone jutted out from the façade, separated by gaps looking just wide enough to take a toe hold. Thomas and Bettina circled the building, trying to identify the best way to enter. On the second floor, on the corner with Ziegelstrasse, each side had a window opening on to a small balcony, which looked promising. Across the road there was a long wall with the Elias cemetery behind it.

  “If anything goes wrong and we can’t get back to the car, we’ll hide over there, behind the wall.” Bettina said quietly, pointing.

  They continued walking round the building, turning at the next corner into a narrow side street, Schulgutstrasse, and then along the full length of Geyerstrasse before turning back into Lothringerallee. On two of the building's corners there were small towers, built higher than elsewhere and presumably providing exits from the interior to the flat roof. Although they’d walked slowly, searching the structure carefully, it had still taken them a good ten minutes to circle the archives building.

  “God, it’s huge!” Thomas said. “We’d easier find a virgin in a brothel as find the document here. And look, there’s still some lights on – not good.”

  Rather than go boldly up the main steps they continued round to the secondary entrance on Ziegelstrasse where the risk of being observed was much less. Although the late night streets were deserted and the building had now become dark Thomas’s heart was hammering and he could feel the adrenaline surging, giving his body a strange, jittery warmth. He pulled out the set of master keys from the rucksack and began trying them in sequence. After a few fruitless attempts one slid into the lock and half turned but then stuck, unable to engage with the wards to open the lock. He moved it carefully backwards and forwards by fractions of a millimetre, willing his fingers to understand by extension the intimate nuzzling of the framework of the key seeking passage.

  The key rotated a fraction further but as he concentrated they heard ragged footsteps approaching along Lothringerallee, getting louder and then drifting into Ziegelstrasse itself. They embraced, Bettina burying her head in his shoulder and Thomas turning to face the building, a courting couple finding privacy in the shadows.

  “Thash the way, mate! You give it ‘er good’n’proper.” the drunken voice encouraged as a hand waved vaguely in their direction and the erratic footsteps zig-zagged away. Their silent laughter broke the tension.

  “Just wanted to make sure he’d really gone.” said Thomas as they eventually disengaged reluctantly and he tried once more to open the door. None of the other keys worked and although they again circled the building carefully it became obvious that the locks were all of the same type and that the master set of keys was of no help.

  “What now?”

  “We could try with another set of keys now that we know which type enters the lock.” Bettina suggested. “But that’s going to mean another day and night lost and Dieter wants us back as soon as possible.”

  “Let me try something. Look, these lower windows are barred but the upper ones aren't. I used to do mountain climbing and free-climbing with my dad. I'm sure I could get to that window there on the second floor, on the corner by the balcony. It's only about, what, six metres I guess, maybe seven.”

  “I don’t think that’s a good …”

  "Just help me up this first bit. Lace your hands in front of you and I can use that as a first step and then get to that first ledge."

  Swinging smoothly on from Bettina's cupped hands and lightly stepping on her shoulder Thomas grasped one of the blocks of stone above his head and stood on the top of the decorative facing running round the foot of the building. He placed a toe in the narrow gap between two higher stone blocks then pulled himself up, rested for a moment, then stretched up and grasped the next block to haul himself further. He’d reached the first floor window, about half way to the balcony, when there was the sound of a car in the distance and in a moment he saw a pair of headlights turn into Ziegelstrasse and come towards them. Bettina walked briskly down the street in the direction the car was travelling and he flattened himself against the building, immobile, barely breathing, hoping that the driver would be concentrating on the road or might be distracted by the sight of Bettina ahead of him. The car continued past without stopping and without changing its speed and as it disappeared round the corner at the end of Ziegelstrasse he hauled himself up another block.

  But by now he was beginning to tire and his arms hurt. He was more out of condition than he'd thought. He hauled himself up by another block and was now almost in reach of the balcony, just to one side and a little recessed from it. The edges of the blocks sloped slightly to the outside, however, and although that hadn’t mattered much before his fingers were now starting to lose their feeling in the cold and he was beginning to despair of retaining his grip for the time he still needed.

  He stuck his toes into the gap as deeply as he could wriggle them, relaxed his arms for a moment, and then turned for the final push to the balcony. He could feel the weight of his body dragging him downwards and he wondered briefly how much it would hurt if he fell. He might well kill himself, he realised. He stretched for the edge of the balcony and although he just touched it with his fingertips it was too far for him to get a good grip on either the parapet or the protective railing above it. He was hit with a sudden bout of panic, the fear of losing his grip and falling almost paralysing him and he stood there for what seemed an age, unable to move up or down and with his arms growing increasingly tired. He willed himself consciously to relax and hang there till he felt calmer.

  He breathed deeply and slowly, willing strength back into his arms and fingers, then carefully edged sideways as close as he could to the balcony, hampered by damage to the block which limited where he could grip, and prepared to make a last desperate attempt to grip the parapet above him and to his right. Matters were complicated both by the wide decorative cladding at each floor level and by the wide and sturdy square stone pillars, topped with an acorn finial, which closed off each end of the balcony and which were too big to grasp securely.

  There were footsteps coming along Geyerstrasse and the fear of being seen acted as a catalyst. Summoning all his strength he exploded upwards, lunging at the edge of the balcony, scrabbling with his fingers and managing to grab one of the thinner vertical stone railings in from the square pillar at the end. Praying that it wouldn't break with the extra force and so dump him on to the pavement he used all the strength of his tired limbs to haul himself up, forcing one foot to waist level and placing it on the decorative cladding separating the floors. At first, precariously balanced and with huge tension in his arms and back, unable to get leverage, it seemed as if he could move no further. Then, slowly, again summoning all his remaining strength he straightened his bent leg and forced himself further upwards just enough to grasp the top rail of the balcony with his free hand, bring up the other to join it and pull himself over, tumbling on to the balcony and lying there exhausted, his face pressed to the stone floor as the footsteps passed underneath him on the pavement, stopping briefly but then continuing as if reassured.

  In a few moments he roused himself to his knees then stood up, looked over and hissed to Bettina: "Sorry! I was whacked after that, maybe even passed out for a moment. Everything's fine now, though. I'm going to try the window."

  He rooted around in his rucksack and took out a thin metal ruler which he slid into the gap between the frame of the casement and its surround. He worked it upwards till it pressed against a catch then tapped it from below with another tool he’d brought, the small hammer with the muffled face. With a few light taps the catch sprung up, freeing the window, and he stepped over the sill and into the room beyond.

&n
bsp; Switching on his torch he cursed on discovering that the batteries were very low so that he could hardly see where he was going. Too late he remembered the set of new batteries he’d left on their dressing table to make sure they weren’t forgotten. As he moved further into the room and out into the corridor the moonlight faded and although the torch gave hardly any light his eyes had acclimatised and he was able to move reasonably well although although he banged his shin hard on a low table in his way and hopped in pain for some seconds.

  He opened another door and found himself at the top of stairs leading to the lower floors. The building was designed with a large rectangular atrium roofed with glass through which moonlight now streamed making his descent easy. On the ground floor he stopped, looked around to orientate himself and to work out where the exit to Ziegelstrasse was likely to be.

  As he left the atrium by a nearby corridor the light from the moon again faded and half way along his torch gave up completely forcing him to feel his way. At the end the corridor became a T-junction and the direction he tried first became a dead end lined with nothing but locked doors. Frustrated and angry at the loss of time, cursing himself again for his stupidity in forgetting the batteries he retraced his steps and now saw, as his eyes had again become accustomed to the darkness, a faint glow ahead of him growing brighter and which turned out to be moonlight coming through a fanlight above what had to be the outside door.

  Running his hands down the edge of the door he found what felt like a cylinder deadlock with a doorknob further down but no sign of a mortice lock as well. He turned both knobs and pulled at the door without success. He tried again, first ensuring that the lock was caught open and then twisting the doorknob with both hands and tugging hard.

  Perplexed and frustrated, the moonlight little help as it cast light behind him and left the door in shadowy darkness, he looked at the door and then, realising, ran his hands round the frame until he found the bolts securing it further, one at the top and the other near the foot. They were stiff but slid back without too great an effort and as he turned the door knob and pulled the door it began to open with a slight creak. At the noise a man, dressed in a long sludgy green, belted greatcoat, standing a few metres away on the edge of the pavement, entirely along and looking into the street, threw down his cigarette and turned towards the opening door.