“Quite, Earl. Quite. A good word. Respectable. But the afternoons off, for what purpose? Any clarity on that.”
“Not sure. It’ll be more than that soon. For a start, next week he’s taking the whole week off. A vacation. Mine begins after he returns. It’s closely coordinated.”
“I suppose after so much scribbling he’s tired. Going to a south sea island?”
“I asked him. He’s staying put. I asked why. He said he wants to look into something. Museums I suppose. He’s been visiting museums regularly. He talks about them constantly.”
“How odd. He wants to look into something? He wants to do that at a museum?” McEwen raised a skeptical eyebrow. “And during his vacation? If he treats museums as part of his work, why would he visit them on his time off?”
“Perhaps not museums then,” said Gifford casually. “He said, above all, he wanted to be on his own.”
“On his own? How most curious.”
Gifford left and McEwen spent the afternoon studying the papers. He made a detailed list of subjects treated. Then he juxtaposed the list of people the consul had been meeting with those whose views were quoted. He struck off a name each time he matched it with a paragraph. After several hours, the names had entirely disappeared into the essays on the Germanic soul. Most of the material was attributable to specific sources. McEwen went through the reports once more, this time circling paragraphs without a source. Whose views, he wondered, did they portray? The question sustained McEwen through the weekend. He read the reports again, and again. He closed his eyes and meditated, seeking a template that would give sense to the paragraphs that had no attribution. The meta-diplomat was convinced the consul had not done the writing, not on his own. The break with his record was too severe. But who would have held the pen? Theory after theory crashed on the shores of things unknown.
If you look at mysteries long enough, McEwen knew, answers eventually jump out. So he studied and dissected and on cue, on Sunday afternoon it happened. When he regrouped the passages without attribution, when they were stripped of qualifications and reduced to simple thoughts, they added up. He reduced the sentences further, down to bare phrases. Eighty pages were distilled into a mere few dozen lines. Staring McEwen in the face was an outline of a political agenda.
Create myths – to shape public attitudes; manipulate social impulses – into a drive for nationalism; revise history – present Germany as a country being held back; vest authority in a few – with sufficient Will to force recognition that Germany must take its rightful seat at the table reserved for the world’s two or three pre-eminent nations.
For some time McEwen was immobile. Who was the consul getting this from? The origin and purpose of this thinking was wrapped up inside multiple shrouds and McEwen saw it as his duty to peel away the layers. Sitting trance-like in a high-backed chair, head slanted forwards, McEwen drove his mind into a fever. His operational capacity was gone. Uncle Teut would be a hindrance. A few loyal spectators remained, listening and observing for old time’s sake, but they were unsuitable for what needed doing. McEwen concluded that a final unmasking of Friend Tony lay ahead, and the task would be his alone. Instincts told him to start with the Berlin vacation. McEwen went to bed but lay awake for hours. The excitement of becoming operational once more, the prospect of field work kept his mind churning. He always loved field work best. His career commenced as a field man. How fitting that it would end as one. When sleep eventually came, it was regular and deep.
The next morning, armed with sandwiches and a thermos of coffee, he set out for Dahlem. Fifty yards from the consul’s mansion he parked his compact to begin a patient wait. The street was leafy, quiet, pleasant. The house had palatial beauty, McEwen admitted to himself. In the bright light, it looked dignified, clean, wholesome, but in its dark recesses lurked Friend Tony, ensconced, now as always, in multiple layers of pretence. McEwen ate two sandwiches at lunch and gulped two more several hours later. By six the thermos with its sweet black brew was empty. Still no sign of life in the vicinity of the mansion. By eight he was tiring and permitted himself a snooze, only to wake up to a barking dog. It was on a leash held by a lady who regarded him with cold suspicion. McEwen huffily drove home, to rest and generate fresh determination.
Next day the field man took up his post earlier. On the Dahlem street the morning activities were in full swing. A postman on his rounds. Garbage being collected with some banging. No one, not even a consul, McEwen was sure, could sleep through that. A street-cleaning vehicle came up from behind. The brushes loosened debris from between the cobblestones and sent it shooting into a collecting tank with the pinging sound of bullets. The machine made a detour around McEwen’s car. The cleaned track lay there like a ribbon of good order, but with a kinky deviation. He watched the street sink into unbroken somnolence. Dahlem as Dahlem was meant to be. The sun rose, went through its zenith, then traced an arc back down. No sign of Friend Tony. When the early evening dog-walking began, a stiff-limbed, sullen McEwen concluded Gifford had given him bad information. The consul wasn’t in town. He wasn’t delving into the charms of local museums or anything else. He was pursuing other pleasures, maybe scuba diving off the Great Barrier Reef. McEwen drove off, leaving behind a small island of uncleanliness on the carefully scrubbed street.
“Nobody home, Earl,” he said into the phone. “I’ve been watching. From early morning to late in the evening, nothing. He’s gone. He’s had you on.” Gifford said he’d check. The next day, mid-morning, he called McEwen back. The information was accurate. The consul was not away; he was simply up and at it very early. Out of the house at seven-fifteen. Gifford read from his notes. “He said he’s never felt more virtuous. He then asked me,What’s up? He wanted to know why I was calling at 6:30 am on the third day of his vacation. I said,Any objection if I send window cleaners round tomorrow? I had to make up a reason for calling.”
“Of course,” said McEwen.“And then?”
“He said,Thanks, Earl. Don’t know where I’d be without you. You’re laughing, Randy. Why?”
“He is most extraordinarily devious. Go on.”
“He said,I’ll be out tomorrow. The place is yours. That was it.”
“Quarter past seven, you said. That’s frightfully early.”
“Yes,” said Gifford, “especially on a vacation.”
“My very point.”
On Thursday, the field man was rewarded. The consul emerged from the mansion punctually at seven-fifteen carrying a thin portfolio and when he turned the corner at the end of the block, McEwen’s car surged. Restraining excitement, he caught up, drove by, turned onto a side street, eased into an opening, side mirror trained on the intersection. He observed the consul merrily swinging the portfolio leave the curb with a light, half jump and continue as before. McEwen did a three-point turn. Back at the intersection he surveyed the avenue and saw the distant U-bahn sign. He waited. Sure enough, the consul disappeared. McEwen raced to the station, slammed on the brakes, rammed the car up a curb. A train was coming in. Hurrying down, he heard doors opening, the shuffling sound of many feet, the station attendant’s warning to stay clear. Zu-u-rück blei-ei-ben! But by the time his stiff-legged run brought him to the platform, the carriage doors were slamming shut. McEwen hastened on with one hand in the air, wanting to take hold of the train and keep it back. With disbelief, he watched it trundle off. The platform emptied, except for the attendant. The man tried to be helpful. “Der nächste geht in vier Minuten.” The next one leaves in four minutes. “Regrettable development,” McEwen muttered. “Most unfortunate.”
“Amerikaner?” the chatty attendant asked.
On the final day of the vacation, McEwen adopted a procedure that always brought an all-or-nothing thrill. He pulled away as the consul left the mansion and preceded him to the station. It triggered the same heart-stopping, breathless anticipation he experienced during his very first operation four decades earlier in Istanbul. He bet everything then – his whole future,
really – on the Bosporous ferry to Asia. The Cambridge don arrived as McEwen’s instincts said he would. During the crossing he took damning photos of the effete man in intimate conversation with a muscular, blond Slav youth. It clinched his supposition: top secret advances in solid-state physics being exchanged for homoerotic love.
On the U-bahn platform McEwen studied a map of the public transport system, felt his target coming down the stairs, and in the glass watched a transient reflection pass. No different than in Peking. That’s how he’d once kept an eye on the Aussie woman. The consul drifted towards the far end of the platform and the field man, a few nonchalant steps at a time, gravitated in that direction too. A train rolled in. A group of students disembarked, and in the crowd the master of Berlin station lost his man. He hurried forward. Zu-u-rück blei-ei-ben! warned the attendant through the platform speakers. McEwen slipped into the front carriage just as the doors were closing. The compartment was fairly crowded, two rows of indifferent faces swaying with the acceleration of the train. McEwen took a place and sat there brooding with the best of them. He stole glances at the consul who studied posters above the windows. In a screaming red-checked sport shirt he was difficult to overlook. It reminded McEwen of Miss Australia in China, who had a similar casual approach to fashion, except – as he had had several occasions to observe – she loved to shed her clothing, doing so in the company of an overtly luckless Arab trader who covertly was in China’s service. Post-coitus she talked like a waterfall. McEwen recorded every word. Impressive really, her total recall of shared intelligence assessments of China, which as registry clerk she had the duty to file. Well, Canberra yanked her out fast, the master of Berlin Station recalled with an inner squeeze of pleasure.
More commuter bodies crammed in as the train neared the centre of West Berlin. Calcutta. It reminded McEwen of the masses of Calcutta. Through a gap, he saw the consul readying himself to get off. Uncanny, really, how he resembled that little Californian who had filled a briefcase with certain English drawings of a new Rolls-Royce jet engine, quit his position at a San Diego aerospace company, and departed for Calcutta. McEwen loved recalling how over a three-week period he had tightened a net and hauled him in – just before a rendezvous with commercial attachés from the local Soviet consulate. And today another net was tightening. Good, basic field work. Nothing was sweeter.
At Wittenbergplatz the crowd rushed to other connecting lines. The consul slipped smoothly to another platform where a new train arrived in seconds. The field man slid in behind. Potsdamer Platz, Stadtmitte, Spittelmarkt – deeper into East Berlin. McEwen casually studied progress on a map pasted on the ceiling, but his instinct was screaming. This was it! The consul sitting there so naturally, so tranquilly, in such simplicity. Down here in the bowels of the city on this, the ultimate of rides, sharing it with a cunning target, while above lay a realm where every telephone, every mail room, every club and school and church bore Stasi scars – the experience thrilled McEwen. He admitted it. Deep down he always admired the Stasi. Few organizations had been more formidable. Better than the KGB. Better cover. Perfect cover really, the way they turned into West Germans. What a stupendous infestation they had managed! He remembered the anecdote shared by both sides in the business: When in Bonn the chancellor farted, Honecker in East Berlin fanned the smell away. The pipeline had been that wide open.
Stop by stop the train emptied. The consul got out at Alexanderplatz. On a new platform he paced up and down. McEwen assumed a low profile behind an advertising sign. With the chase momentarily paused, a fresh wave of nostalgia hit the field man. His whole career, a long parade of accomplishments, passed before his eyes. Passport corruption in Hong Kong; money laundering in Singapore; arms deals in South Africa; the lively trade in military secrets in Vienna. He had seen it all. How fortunate he was to have this final journey in Berlin. No other city in the world could generate a happier conjunction of place, persons and perfidy.
A train clattered in and the consul boarded. McEwen slithered into the far end of the same carriage, where he sat with his back turned. Deeper and deeper into the East. At this rate they’d soon be in Poland, McEwen mused happily. At Magdalenenstrasse, the consul got out once more. McEwen’s instincts roared with fresh conviction. He suppressed an urge to jump up. But he remained seated for a moment and lingered on the platform, to allow a tracking distance to develop. At ground level the field man noted the city was broken up and bleak.
The consul was a practised walker. His pace was brisk and McEwen, on stiff legs, broke into a half-run to keep up. Something about the area was familiar. A neighbourhood in Moscow? Or was it that adrenaline-filled outing he once had in Bucharest? The consul turned left. At the corner McEwen glanced up at the street sign. Normannenstrasse. At that moment multiple conjectures fell away. The field man knew this place. He knew what the lifeblood of this street once was and what went on behind the walls that he now reached out to touch. He steadied himself. His brain was beginning to whirl so fast it nearly spun apart and, as excitement at the discovery grew, he was momentarily overwhelmed by dizziness. Recovering, he observed that down the street the consul waved to a guard at a gate in a most personable way and, just as remarkably, the guard congenially waved back.
That was because the guard was used to seeing this visitor by now. Nor was the guard alone. Most of Stobbe’s people treated the consul like one of them. A bright thumbs-up good morning at the gate would be followed by light bantering inside the complex. Hanbury looked the veteran by now, the way he went up and down the aisles, a finger running along the markings until he found a file. With an archivist’s touch, he eased folders out of shelf slots and deftly slipped them back. Everyone in the place shared light moments to relieve the oppressive atmosphere. Whose soul is being bared today? a post-doc in library science would ask. The Werewolf? The Raven? Hanbury would respond:Not the Raven. Not the Werewolf. Not today. Today I’m going after infernal Lucifer himself. The deep and dreary catacomb would resound with peals of laughter.
Raven. Werewolf. Cover names appropriate for Nazi war criminals. After their service to the Third Reich, many became useful to the Stasi, and somewhere in Stobbe’s archival jungle a fertile relationship between men who once wore brown shirts and those who preferred red socks – to use a Gregor Donner Reich distinction – lay waiting to be found. Although the paths were cleverly concealed, Hanbury had unmasked a Werewolf,and a Lucifer, and spent hours searching out Satan, Serpent, the Prince of Darkness and others of that ilk.
Obtaining the pass had been straightforward. He reintroduced himself to Frau Rommelsberger at the front desk. She had forgotten his visit, but after some coaxing plus a show of his calling card identical to the one she eventually pulled from a drawer, her memory came back. “Natürlich erinnere ich mich,” she said, her perky eyes wondering why he asked. “Naturally I remember. I wouldn’t forget a consul. I wrote your name on the back of your calling card. You see. Here it is. Herr Stobbe wanted you to join us.” Hanbury handed her a completed form and two photos. She prepared an identity card and plasticized it with a heat-treatment machine. The machine reminded her, she said, of her old iron. “I did a lot of ironing in my day.” “Some skills are forever useful,” the consul said agreeably. She pinned the badge on his jacket. “Now you’re one of us,” she said.
The number of researchers in the labyrinth had increased and he joined the busy seekers. Their mammoth task was to identify every informant, each double agent, all the hundreds of thousands of Stasi collaborators in the GDR. To warm up for his own exploration, Hanbury retraced the steps he took with Stobbe months before. He poked around the various index rooms, F16, F17, F22, F77, F78, and wandered through the caverns with the neatly ordered rows of files. Then he got down to business.
In F16, the master index with its sly, phonetic approach to ordering six million names, he looked for himself first. Nothing had changed. He was there, forever slotted in between Bruno Hähn and Wilhelm Hähne. What wrong had they committed?
Maybe having been overheard listening to pop songs on West Berlin radio? Hanbury would never know. He was there to research other personae. Schwartz had provided him with half a dozen cards, each with a name neatly printed in the top left hand corner: Grassinger, Alwin P; Richter, Johann Georg; Winterstein, Reinhardt: Böckel, Julius Arthur; Reuss, Ernst Wilhelm; Woltmann, Karl.
That first time in F16, Hanbury searched them out. He found three and transcribed details from the index onto Schwartz’s cards. Winterstein was the easiest. Grassinger was more difficult because he had been filed with only one s. Eventually Hanbury came up with Woltmann too, at least he believed he did, if a Karl amongst the Wohltmanns was the right one. With Richter, Böckel and Reuss he had no luck.
Later, in Das Klecksel, Hanbury pulled out the meagre harvest. Schwartz took the cards eagerly. “I’m surprised these three drew a blank,” he said. For some reason he believed all six would have Stasi records.
“I ran out of time. They might be there, but the filing is bizarre. Look at Grassinger and Woltmann.” Hanbury pointed at the arbitrary changes.
Schwartz thought about this and added other possible names to the three cards. To Böckel, he added Bokel, Bockal and Böcal. Similar variations were put on the cards of Richter and Reuss. They turned to the three names Hanbury located. “What are those numbers?” Schwartz asked.
“They tell you where to look in F22, the procedures index. No names there, only numbers. For example, my F22 card shows my file can be located using the foreign enemy index, F17.”
“Can you tell anything from these F22 notations?”
“No, except that two are in the F47 index and one is F56. Next time in I’ll take a look.”
Schwartz then handed Hanbury twelve more cards with names.
The Berlin Assignment Page 44