The Helsinki Pact

by Alex Cugia

  Chapter 36

  Thursday January 18 1990, early hours

  “SO, what kept you Thomas? Had a bit of a sleep on the way, did we? Let me in – it’s fucking freezing out here.” She punched him lightly on the shoulder as she stepped past him then turned and threw her arms around him. “Actually, that was pretty amazing. Except you scared the hell out of me on that last bit. I thought you weren’t going to reach the balcony, maybe even come crashing down.”

  She hugged him again, hard, and held her face against his for a moment. “Don’t ever, ever, do anything like that to me again. Just don't. Please.” They stood together for a moment.

  "That man," he asked "who was he? That's what scared the hell out me - seeing him there and no sign of you. I thought he was Vopo. And then when you knocked just now I couldn't be sure that it was you. What happened?"

  "Him? Oh, that's Heinz." She bent her fingers and studied her nails. "I've a date with him tomorrow evening, well, half past midnight. Here. Just outside."

  He stared at her.

  "He works night shift round the corner, making uniforms, things like that." She smiled at his confusion. "His wife's just run away with someone to the West and he was pretty fed up so he'd come out for a smoke on his long break and to think about things. I knew where his factory was so I asked for directions to a street near there and he walked part of the way with me and then I doubled back. He said he saw the door opening but I said it was probably just the cleaners and he accepted that." She smiled again. "He was sweet. Shame I have to stand him up tomorrow. Maybe, though, I could just ... a quickie ... you wouldn't mind would you?" She laughed and skipped out of the way as Thomas growled and lunged at her.

  “Don't you dare! OK. Let’s get moving, though I’m not sure how we can even start. This place is a maze, it could take us forever just to find the right room, and all the doors seem to be locked as well. We’ll need your torch, mine’s given up.”

  As they walked along the corridor and turned to return to the atrium they flashed Bettina's torch on the doors, trying them randomly. On each door there was a brass casing holding a light yellow card with a single name – A Altdorfer, H Burgkmair, H Bosch, I Calvino, A Merkel, name after name but with no indication of the sex or status of the employees working behind the doors.

  “This is hopeless! These are just private offices, I think. Maybe the archives are upstairs.” It was now just after one in the morning and Thomas’s tone was gloomy as he could see things becoming a complete failure. They went to the stairs leading up from the atrium floor and lit by moonlight they climbed to the top of the building. At first this looked identical to the area they’d just left but as soon as Thomas checked a door their excitement returned. Instead of names on the doors the cards now had dates.

  “Jan-Mar 1967, Apr-May, 1967 ... ” he read out then moved rapidly along the corridor. “Jun-Jul 1968 ... Apr-May 1970 ... ”

  The last entry on the corridor, at the end furthest from the atrium, was Nov-Dec 1971. They tried the neighbouring corridor but the dates there were earlier. In the other direction they found 1972, then 1974 and as they moved round the edge of the atrium and into the corridors finally hit 1979 before the door cards changed again, now marked with titles like ‘Stationery’, ‘Cleaning supplies’, “Men”, “Women”, ‘Interview 1’, ‘Interview 2’, and with several claiming assertively to be private. They went down the stairs one level and after further false starts again picked up the date trail.

  “OK, we’ve got dates again. 1980! Looks like we’re on the right floor at least.” Thomas laughed, his earlier brush with death forgotten in the excitement of tracking down the document. “And only thirty or forty locked offices to search in, what is it now, a little over four hours, five if we push it!” He laughed again. He’d just have to try using his master keys to open the various doors and then use the keys that Bettina had persuaded Georg to lend her to try the filing cabinets.

  “I should have asked Georg the date in which the current President of the Court was named − they've probably not backdated it beyond that.” Bettina apologised.

  In the distance, towards Lothringerstrasse, there was a noise of a key being turned and then a door scraping open. Thomas stopped and held his breath, listening to the noise which was now certainly that of the main door being pushed shut and locked. The faint sound of footsteps was gradually becoming more distinct, moving towards them.

  “Shit! It must be the guard doing a patrol, coming to check all’s OK.” Thomas peered over the balcony but could see nothing in the shadows.

  There was nowhere to hide and all the doors were locked. Breaking into an office would be impossible without being heard. They took off their shoes, knotted the laces together and hung them round their necks. By now the noise from the hard leather shoes of the intruder had grown louder and was mixed with speech, indistinct but clearly speech. “Shit! There must be two of them. Jesus! Let’s hope they stick together or at least stay downstairs.”

  Then there was the sound of a door opening followed by a silence which was more unnerving than the footsteps had been. A long minute passed, then a second which stretched on and on and well into the third again the sound of a door opening with, faintly in the background before it banged shut the noise of a cistern flushing. The footsteps started again and and they strained to distinguish the number. Now it was clear that the steps were coming up the stairs towards them.

  They had already established that all the side corridors running off the main perimeter corridor were dead ends. All they could do was stick to the main perimeter corridor, keeping ahead and hoping that the guard or guards would do one circuit only and then leave. They set off, moving as rapidly as they dared, away from the moonlit staircase to the relative darkness of the perimeter corridor but it seemed that as the following footsteps reached the the top they turned towards them and increased in speed. Thomas and Bettina moved as fast as they dared and again the footsteps moved faster in turn. Now they were almost running but hampered by the need to keep as quiet as possible. At the corner of Schulgutstrasse and Ziegelstrasse, they paused to catch their breath, wondering how long they could survive this chase in the darkness without giving themselves away.

  Suddenly, from the direction of the following footsteps, the beam of a powerful torch cut them out of the blackness, blinding them, turning them into perfect targets. There was nothing they could do, no chance of escape. There was a clink of metal and Thomas braced himself for a shot. He moved to Bettina and held her, turning to shield her with his body. He felt in his pocket and eased out his pistol, hiding it for the moment.

  The figure moved nearer, breathing hard, saying nothing, the torch still trained on them but wavering as if it was too heavy to hold still. Suddenly the figure stopped and sank to the floor in front of them.

  “Bettina!” it croaked. “Bettina! You can’t do this to an old man.”

  “Georg!” she shouted. “Damn it, Georg, you scared the shit out of us.”

  "Jesus!" said Thomas crossly. "Forget this old man stuff. You can't do that to us. We were pissing ourselves not knowing what was happening. We could have been shot. I nearly shot you. If you're a friend why didn't you say who you were?"

  Bettina patted him on the arm, laughed softly in relief, then reached out to help Georg to his feet and hugged him. The large bunch of keys at Georg's waist clinked as he moved.

  “I told the custodian there was an emergency hearing and I needed the keys to access documents urgently for a court case tomorrow." He stopped and panted for some moments, leaning forward with his hands on his knees. "I was sure you’d be here and that you could do with some help.” Georg said. “He lives out of town, some distance away, but I’d hoped to get here by midnight only there was an accident on the road back and that delayed me seriously.”

  “Georg, this is Thomas. He’s a friend.” The two shook hands.

  “Georg, when did the current Court president get nominated?” Thomas asked.

&nbs
p; Georg thought for a moment. “It must have been just over seven years ago, in 1982,” he said finally. “Ah, I see. If his signature’s on the document then it has to be after he was appointed. So we only need to look between 1982 and 1985. Well, maybe till 1989 if I'm wrong about why they did it but let's start with those four years.”

  “And if a new document was to be added to an existing list it would have to be placed as the last one of the year because of the numbering, wouldn’t it. So we only need to check the December files of the various years.” Thomas added.

  “That’s rightThat's good thinking. So that’s only four sets of files to check. Or maybe eight maximum. Let’s go!” Georg was smiling now, caught up in their enthusiasm.

  The door marked “Nov-Dec 1982” was two side corridors away and opened easily when Georg selected a key from his bunch and fitted it into the lock. The room was approximately four metres square painted in the standard grey of the DDR as if using a bright colour would show a lack of serious purpose in the important task of building socialism in the country. The walls were lined with three-drawer filing cabinets in an identical shade to the walls, each drawer neatly labelled with numbers which meant nothing to Thomas or Bettina.

  “Don’t worry!” Georg said, noticing their dismay. “Sifting paper is now my speciality. Look, they’re all ordered by date and protocol number. There’s probably only one drawer which has the files of the thirty-first of December. The later the date, the farther back in the room it is. Then it moves from left to right.” He moved to the right side of the room. “Here it is. Bring your torch over.” He pulled out another key and opened the bottom drawer of the file cabinet. “It should be somewhere in here.” He pulled out a couple of files and laid them out. “Protocol 82/9227. No, this isn’t it. A sentence on a petty theft. Protocol 82/9228. Nothing.”

  Thomas and Bettina glanced at each other, marvelling at the speed with which Georg checked through the files, realising it would have probably taken them an hour merely to find the right cabinet. Finally Georg stood up. “No.” he said, locking the cabinet and getting up, “It’s not here. Let’s try another year.”

  They moved down the corridor and into the “December 1983” room. It took fifteen minutes for Georg to sift through the cabinet, but again he found nothing.

  Thomas’s euphoria had left him and he was beginning to feel discouraged. “Georg, how can we be sure they didn’t substitute the file with another one?”

  “We can’t be sure, but that would be a more risky approach because of the protocol numbers. If you replace one file with another then the original file would have to disappear entirely, to become as if it had never existed. The problem then is that references elsewhere to that case with that number wouldn’t match the new one and so inconvenient questions could get asked. But yes, it’s possible and if that’s what they did then our chance of finding it is immensely difficult, impossible even. It could be anywhere in this building and it could take us a year just checking the possibilities.”

  They moved to the room holding December 1984. Georg opened the last filing cabinet on the right and began looking through the drawer at the top and then moving on to the second drawer. In that year there had been a large number of records and there had obviously been a rush to get them all entered in time before 1985. Bettina looked anxiously over Georg’s should as he worked while Thomas paced up and down, stopping occasionally to gaze out of the small window at the street lights and the silhouettes of the nearby buildings.

  Georg yawned and stretched, then rubbed his eyes, scrunching them up and blinking. He pulled out half the files from the lowest drawer and placed them on the table in the centre to check carefully, anxious to be sure that his tiredness wasn’t leading him to miss anything obvious. He glanced at the first and turned it over, face down. The second and the third followed and he moved steadily through the pile, discarding the files in turn until he came to the last one. He began turning the pages carefully and then went through the complete document a second time. He stopped and rubbed his hand across his eyes and looked at them.

  “We’ve found it!" he said, matter of factly. "Look ... ” He pointed to the preamble and began to read “Sale of Dresdner Mehl Kooperative to Omega Mills. The parties hereby convened ... ” He began flipping through the pages roughly until he reached the end. “There’s the signature of Gerd Henkel, representing the purchasers. He’s the one you told me died recently, isn’t he?”

  Bettina looked at Thomas and took his hand.

  “Yes. That’s the one. Thomas, let’s get a good photograph of every page."

  "OK, but why don't we just take the document itself? That's the proof!"

  "It is, but suppose someone gets suspicious. Suppose Roehrberg comes and checks, or sends someone to check, and the document isn't there. What's that going to say? I'd love to take it but we just can't."

  Once on the pavement outside the archives they hugged, elated with their success and feeling a new sense of purpose which drove out any tiredness. Bettina looked at Georg and touched him lightly on his cheek.

  “Georg, thank you. We couldn't have done it without your help. But Georg, I’ve got another favour to ask.”

  “Figures. At this point, I’m in so deep it doesn’t make any difference. Just give me a day, I’ll have to do it after work.” He held out his hand and took the film that Bettina had removed from Thomas’s camera.

  “We’ve got another couple of rolls we took in Henkel’s house. Maybe Thomas could bring them over to you tomorrow?”

  Chapter 37

  Thursday January 18 1990

  BETTINA was again on her way to the Dresden Stasi HQ, this time for her meeting with Spitze. The excitement of the previous night and particularly the lack of sleep had made her nervous and edgy and as she approached the centre she became certain she was again being followed, this time by a nondescript dark blue Lada. It was being done very professionally and because the driver hung well back and periodically changed places with other traffic she’d been unable to see his face clearly, only that he appeared to be wearing heavy, square glasses, almost hidden by the brim of his hat. She wondered how Thomas was getting on handing over the films to Georg. They'd decided that Thomas would wait for half an hour or so after Bettina had left and would apparently just be cycling into town as anyone might, in order to allay suspicion. Sooner or later their connection would become known, however, and she knew that when that happened they'd both be in even greater danger. All the more reason for completing what they could and returning to Berlin as soon as possible, by the weekend at the very latest she hoped.

  She turned into the car park and saw the Lada roll to a stop, discreetly pulling up behind a parked van, allowing the driver to see Bettina's movements without being conspicuous. She thought of suddenly driving out at speed and doubling back later but decided the game was boring and these people were too professional to be ditched easily. In any case she had to visit Spitze and as soon as she stepped inside others in the organisation would monitor her movements and set another tail on her when she left if they chose to. She might as well get it over with and work out later how to ditch anyone following her then.

  As she opened the car door to make for the building the sky darkened rapidly. She heard distant thunder and as she got out got caught in rain which now fell heavily, the drops bouncing off the parking spaces and cars and beginning to form deep pools at the edges of the roads and paths. The few people in the street were scurrying along, bent against the downpour, some scampering and using briefcases or bags to shield their heads while others sheltered in doorways and looked gloomy. She dashed back into the car, pulled the car door shut and waited for the downpour to stop, cursing herself for forgetting to bring an umbrella. The torrent of rain increased, if anything, and as it showed no signs of stopping she made a dash for the entrance to the building, round the corner and some distance from where she had to park. The raindrops stung her face and made it hard to see her way so that at one point sh
e missed the edge of the pavement and ploughed through a small lake before she could stop herself. By the time she reached the door she was drenched. She thought for a moment of returning to the Dornbusches to change then realized doing so would make her absurdly late for her meeting. She felt cold and miserable.

  As she came upstairs Roehrberg’s secretary stepped out of the photocopy room and stood in front of her, blocking her way.

  “Miss List?” she said, smiling tightly, pleased with herself as the bearer of discomforting news. “Mr Roehrberg needs to see you. This way please.”

  “I thought he was travelling today. I'm sorry, but I need to dry myself a little before anything else. You can see I’m drenched." She looked down at the puddle by her feet. "And I'm already late for my meeting with Mr Spitze. I'll be happy to see Mr Roehrberg after that, though.”

  The older woman ignored her, knocked on Roehrberg’s office door and then immediately opened it and stood aside, ushering Bettina in. Roehrberg was standing in front of the window, his back turned to her, staring out into the pouring rain falling into the Elbe and beyond, and splashing on the city roofs and domes. She assumed she'd been seen from the window.

  “Miss List, sit down.” His tone was glacial and his coldness, matching the temperature of the room, and her wet clothing made her shiver as she sat in the leather chair opposite his desk. Looking down she saw that she dripped water on to his carpet and that her trousers had made a serious damp patch which would later show up as a stain on the leather. The realisation gave her a childish pleasure and, taking small victory to herself in the unpleasant encounter, she squirmed to spread the water around as far as she could.