by Alex Cugia
“Seems our friend had a fair bit of money to invest, didn’t he? How much do you think someone like him earns, more or less?”
“No idea. I would guess no more than seventy thousand Ost Marks a year, though.”
“There’s no way he could buy a house in Munich earning that kind of money, or Nice for that matter. The Ost Mark was worth hardly anything out of the country so that’s equivalent to a salary of, what, maybe five or six thousand DM. That wouldn’t even get him the front door, let alone a whole house or two. You read something about a joint venture earlier. Maybe Roehrberg is the treasurer and it goes a lot higher, a high level Stasi syndicate doing deals and creaming off funds for themselves, putting that into houses and the like. Remember what Georg said about Wolfgang's warning him not to meddle. But what about the Omega Mills contract from the archives? Are the pictures OK?”
Bettina leafed through the pictures and pulled a few out.
“Yes, here it is. Let’s see … the sale price is set at 35,000 Ost Marks.”
"That's ridiculous! Maybe half what you said Roehrberg might earn in a year and even if it was supposedly five year ago. I bet if we got hold of the balance sheet we'd find the net worth a whole lot higher, the building itself for a start let alone what the nominal cash balance probably shows. Just reinforces the case that the whole transaction was rigged.”
“We still have the problem that Roehrberg doesn’t appear in this document.”
“Probably because he’s too smart to sign documents himself unless he really has to, like the contracts for the houses.” Thomas said. “He could be involved in Omega Mills but not appear as a signatory, particularly if this is a syndicate venture. We need to find who owns that company and who the shareholders are. If it’s registered in West Germany that shouldn’t be that hard to do.”
“What if he doesn't show up?”
“We’d need to find a link between the shareholders and Roehrberg. He could be using proxies. They all could be.Then Or we’d need to show that Roehrberg was involved in Henkel’s murder. And to do that proving that the documents I photographed in Roehrberg’s study came from Henkel’s house would really help. Henkel’s study certainly contained a lot more files than were there when we came in. The dust tracks showed that. Two days later we find boxes of incriminating documents in Roehrberg’s home, including the Omega stuff. The coroner estimated the death at around six in the evening, you said, so probably an hour after Henkel left the office. We were there from nine thirty. This would mean Roehrberg or someone he sent was in Henkel’s house between those times and took the material. How would they know that was a suitable time? Unless they casually happened to assist in a suicide, I think it’s pretty obvious they killed him, or at least arranged the killing.”
“We don’t have proof and we don’t really have the motive either.”
“Roehrberg knew you needed a culprit for the investigation. Maybe he had Henkel steal the money for both of them, perhaps telling him they would somehow lay the blame on Spitze. Then, once the money was theirs he killed Henkel instead.”
“Why not use Spitze as a culprit then?”
“Roehrberg is clever. We now know Henkel was compromised and that he was much more dangerous for Roehrberg than Spitze could ever be. Once unification occurs, a lot of Stasi top brass will get interrogated. The West German services will try to nail them any way they can to make them pay for what they’ve done for the last forty years. Henkel would have been a weak link in the chain of Roehrberg’s defence. He would probably have cracked. And maybe Spitze was involved in the killing anyway.”
“How do we prove it?”
“What about the confession? Was it authenticated?” Thomas asked.
“Roehrberg said they’d done a handwriting analysis and it proved positive. But he would say that wouldn't he! Dieter has a couple of people he normally uses for such things so by tomorrow we should know if the the confession is authentic. If it turns out that Henkel didn’t write it, then that’s another things against Roehrberg. He would have to prove that the test was actually done and that no pressure was exerted on the expert. I wouldn’t think that these guys generally make mistakes.”
It was almost 12.30, early morning, when they reached East Berlin. The city was deserted and looked eerily beautiful, wreathed in wisps of fog from the Spree. Bettina took the wheel as they crossed a large part of the city before entering one of the residential areas in the north east, Niederschönhausen.
“Dieter lives in one of these houses here.” she said as she swerved left into a winding road. “I had to bring him some urgent documents once. It was a breach of protocol but he trusted me enough and we always met there when there was something particularly secretive to discuss. The house is hard to recognize as they all look pretty much alike but it should be farther along and to the left, toward the end of the road, in Wolffstrasse ...” she said, wiping the fogged up window with the back of her hand. She opened the window slightly, letting in the chilly night air. “I guess it’s just about ... What are all those cars doing there?”
Two police cars were in front of one of the houses, their red lights flashing, painting the façade of the white house with regular splashes of a dark red hue. Another one, its lights turned off, stood a few metres further on.
“Keep driving. Don’t stop here. Are you sure it’s Dieter’s house they’re in?”
“Yes, it’s his. I’m certain.”
“Shit!”
Bettina swerved into the next side street and found a parking spot. As they hurried back Thomas took Bettina’s hand and slowed her down as they approached the house.
“We have to be careful. Casual passers-by. Let me speak, OK?”
They opened the small gate and walked up the path towards the front door which was standing open. Thomas, ahead of Bettina, saw the policemen clustered inside, one of them kneeling and examining a body crumpled on the floor. Part of the face, by the left temple and forehead, was badly damaged, blown away by a large calibre bullet from short range Thomas guessed. Blood matted the hall carpet and pooled on the floor boards. It lay stickily in the body's hair and had run down and congealed over much of the face. Despite the distortion to the features Thomas was certain it was Dieter, killed as he answered the door by the look of things. He stopped in the doorway and turned, taking Bettina in his arms to try to to block her view.
“We need to get away from here. Fast.”
Despite his efforts she glanced over his shoulder, became rigid then shuddered and screamed in anguish, thrusting him aside to look. “Oh no! NO!” She clung to Thomas, burying her face in his shoulder, sobbing. A senior policemen turned and moved swiftly towards them.
“Who are you? Why are you here? Do you know the victim?Get out of here! This is a crime scene and you're no right to intrude.”
Thomas staggered slightly, affecting inebriation. “My fiancée and I were at a dinner party down the road and saw the door open. What's happened? Is anything wrong? Can we help.”
“What does it look like? Get out of here or you'll be arrested. Go home.”
Thomas nodded, glancing round as best he could. Everything seemed orderly and with no sign of a struggle. Dieter had probably known who killed him, he thought.
“Let’s go.” he said to Bettina softly as he turned and guided her, still sobbing convulsively, to the gate. “We’ve no time to lose. They got Dieter. We’re probably next on the list. We have to disappear.”
Chapter 40
Friday January 19 1990, early hours of the morning
BACK in the car they sat thinking, mulling over the recent developments. Bettina had stopped sobbing but kept suddenly breaking down as grief overwhelmed her without warning. Thomas sat in the driving seat, one arm round her, holding her close, and the other stroking her hair but all the while alert and wary in case of any danger outside.
He could feel fear prickling his skin. It was midnight-quiet, still and silent, and whenever leaves rustled beside the car shivers
ran down his spine. His heartbeat seemed all over the place and at times he had difficulty breathing but he continued stroking Bettina’s hair and calming her.
“We must go. We really must go. It’s dangerous here.” he whispered.
She nodded, moved away from him and sat back in her seat, now calmer but gulping occasionally, her eyes still wet.
“Drive over to my place. We need to rest. There’s no way now we’ll be able to do anything about Roehrberg.”
“Whoever killed Dieter will be looking for us as well. Could be Roehrberg but whoever it is they’ll know about you. Your apartment is the first place they’ll look. This is the Firm we’re talking about, the people who make it their business to know what everyone's doing, remember. We need to avoid all your usual hangouts at least until we understand better what’s going on.”
They drove across the city and as they neared the centre, approaching the police station and the former Stasi’s operative offices in the Alexanderplatz, Bettina became increasingly agitated. Surely if they were hiding from agents they were in exactly the wrong area, she thought. It was late, but anyone could be around, a car out at this hour could be noted and she knew that her car’s make and registration would be in her file.
Sensing her concern Thomas reached out, took her hand and pressed it. "Not far now. We'll be safe once we're inside."
He turned into a small dog-leg back street with a few run-down houses and which ended in a patch of rough ground frequented by prostitutes and their clients. Although the police made high profile visits every month or so the area was generally undisturbed and a car left round the corner was unlikely to attract attention. Gathering their things they set off for Kai’s apartment, less than a kilometre away.
As Thomas pushed open the solid wooden street door and they climbed the four flights to the apartment he prayed silently that John had visited daily to do what Thomas had asked. Thomas had arranged matters initially to give him leverage against Dieter and the difficult situation in which he’d found himself but now, as things had turned out, their lives might depend on matters having worked as he'd planned.
When they entered the apartment Thomas saw that the stereo was still on but the TEAC four track wasn’t moving. He walked over, put the headphones on and pressed the rewind button, hoping it was a temporary problem. The large reel started turning slowly. Bettina was still standing at the entrance, staring at him and the equipment.
“Where are we? What’s all this equipment?”
“We’re in a friend’s apartment. As for this,” he said indicating the TEAC, “you should know better than anyone else. Isn’t half the country being listened to by the Stasi?” He sat down on the battered sofa and patted it to have her sit beside him.
“I was a little slow in realising what you two had done. Once I'd recovered a bit from the battering Dieter's goons had given me I spent a little time trying to figure out just how Dieter knew I’d been lying about my Frankfurt visit. You were tense when I came into the room and I saw how you reacted to my answers but why didn't really strike me at the time. Then that came back to me later and that made me realise you'd already known everything. Dieter’s questioning was just a farce. It was a chance for me to tell the truth, to be seen as reliable, and to hide the fact that you’d been listening to me somehow. Right?”
“Yes.” She stared at the old carpet, swallowed and then forced herself to look at Thomas. “I willed you to tell the truth. You don’t know how much I willed you to do that. I knew what would happen if you didn’t but I ... but I ... ” She looked away again and once more grief for Dieter’s death welled up, mixed with her earlier betrayal of Thomas, and she again sobbed bitterly as he held her.
“Nobody at the canteen could have overheard our conversation. Stephan wasn’t a spy, otherwise you wouldn’t have needed me.” He got up and opened the fridge. John had almost finished the beers but there was still most of the UHT milk he’d brought over. He reached for the Bialetti moka machine and began preparing coffee for them both. The reel had now rewound completely and had stopped with a snapping, cracking sound. Bettina was watching him, following his movements, waiting in silence for him to continue.
“There were only two plausible explanations. One was that you'd been able to place microphones inside the Deutsche Bank canteen. But it was impossible for you to know where we would sit and not realistic to wire the whole canteen. The other reason was that you also seemed very much aware of what had happened during my interviews. You couldn’t have miked the whole building. Or again, if you had, you wouldn’t have needed me.”
Bettina nodded as he continued his analysis.
“Oh, by the way,” he continued. “I’ve been wondering all this time, but couldn’t really ask you, if the person listening to my conversations was a young man lying on the grass of the Taunusanlage.”
“With a Walkman?”
“Exactly. I saw him from the interview window and envied him, lying there in the sunshine. It was only much later that I realised it was probably he who had nailed me.”
“His name is Sylvan Battenmeier.” she said. “He likes to travel, so Dieter sends him on the easy missions. The Walkman idea is his, his trademark approach. He hates sitting in a car the whole time, so he miniaturised the radio receiver system and put it inside an old Walkman he picked up on one his trips.”
“Wiring the building was impossible so you must have planted the micc on me somehow. At first I thought of my clothes. But I hadn’t changed before I went to dinner and you seemed to have lost contact then. And you couldn't be certain of what I'd be wearing anyway so it had to be something I'd definitely have with me. There was only one explanation - the briefcase. It was a classic, a realthe Trojan horse! A nice present just before the first mission.”
“When did you find out?”
“No more than a couple of weeks or so after I got beaten up. From then on, I let you hear only what I wanted you to hear. I always had the briefcase with me in meetings with you or Dieter but otherwise only when it suited me. It was all carefully crafted.”
The coffee made its characteristic gurgling sound as it filled the upper chamber and Thomas poured it into two cups, adding milk to one and then continuing his explanation.
“Now, when Dieter called the meeting after the Wall came down I realized there was a big risk that I’d be prosecuted as a spy in the West. That was crazy. I was already being forced to spy on my country and I was now risking being put in prison for doing something against my will. I needed to have some evidence, something to hand over to the Western agents in case I was put on trial. The only hope I had of saving myself was to prove I was a double agent, or at least was trying to be. Even if Dieter didn’t give my file to the BND, I had no way of knowing my name hadn’t already been recorded somewhere. And as much as I had by then learned to respect and trust Dieter, I couldn’t base my future on his word alone.”
“So that’s when you bought this?” she said, indicating the TEAC 4 track recorder.
“Yes. Rudimentary, but very efficient. I had a limited budget and this worked fine for my purposes. Although I had to spend a fortune on the miniaturised microphone and the signal amplifier. Those really are state of the art. I was lucky enough that this flat was available and that it was so close to the Stasi offices, suitably within wireless range with a decent antenna here.”
She sat up and stared at him. “You planted a microphone in our offices?” Her hand jerked, spilling coffee over her hand and the floor. “Damn! That’s hot. You’re joking!” she said, looking intently at him, and then “Aren’t you?” He laughed at her surprise, enjoying the release of tension from their situation.
“In Dieter’s office, to be precise. During that last meeting, while Dieter was talking and you were both looking out of the window at something across the street.”
She stood looking at him, wrinkling her forehead and shaking her head slowly, her slightly amused expression flitting between incredulity and admiration.
/> “When we left for Dresden, I’d arranged for a friend to come over and change the tapes every day. It should have recorded everything from about ten each morning to maybe eight in the evening. I'd have done it for longer but it was a case of balancing the recording time on a reel against when something might be happening.”
“Dieter gets in early and usually works late. You could have missed something vital.”
“He does, yes, but not many others do and it’s the interaction, the meetings and conversations, that I was interested in. You can’t tape people’s thoughts. And anything particularly secret is more likely to be discussed when the office is pretty empty, particularly later at night. I had to make a judgement, balance the time I could run the thing against when things might be happening. As I explained I initially set it up for entirely different reasons but now it should help us understand what happened to Dieter and who may have wanted him dead, fill in the background to what led to that perhaps.”
“Can you find my last conversation with him?” Bettina asked. “He behaved very strangely, just as if he couldn’t talk freely.”
Thomas started looking through the reels piled on the table, each of them with John’s neatly written date and start time in black marker. “Shit!” he said finally. “Yesterday’s seems to be missing. Why the hell did he overlook that one?”
Bettina looked at him in dismay. Then she started laughing and pointed at the machine with the tape he’d just rewound. Thomas began laughing as well, shook his head slowly and tapped his temple, then put on the headphones and began listening, fast forwarding periodically for long bursts. He smiled at her, stuck a thumb up in the air, and then switched the output through the speakers.
“You’re right. That was yesterday so of course it was the tape in the machine.” He breathed a sigh of relief. “What time was your call?”Somewhere towards the end of the day .”
“7.30 anyway, probably nearer 8, I think.”
“Hmmm. Let’s hope it’s there.”