Von Helmholtz didn’t reply. He saw Hanbury was agitated, even bewildered. Despite his own outward calm, von Helmholtz was not at ease either. He’d slept no more than the consul. Half the night was spent studying a file, the other half he was on the phone. At times it had been tense. Another witchhunt! he claimed angrily at the beginning. But supporting information began arriving by fax. Von Helmholtz stood at the machine. Page after page streamed in, a flood of supporting information. He studied the material, then called Graf Bornhof back. Preposterous! he barked, though he was less sure than he sounded. In the early hours he had to yield, in part because the proof was unassailable, in part because confirmation came that the consul’s own people wanted him out. Very well, he agreed, he would see to it that Consul Hanbury had an orderly departure. Graf Bornhof informed him the situation was more complex. Other agencies besides his now had the file. The protectors of the constitution as well as the law’s enforcers, both had decided they had a stake. They insisted on witnessing that the consul got on a plane. Von Helmholtz shook his head, but acquiesced. He was too tired for turf wars.
The night’s drama had lengthened because of negotiations with Ottawa. Pullach, Graf Bornhof confided, wanted him declared persona non grata and, initially, on the other side of the Atlantic they agreed. Then came a change of mind. Put everything on hold. Do nothing for half an hour. A counter-proposal was made. Make the departure look routine. Avoid adverse publicity. Present it as a diplomatic reassignment. Pullach was against it, until von Helmholtz weighed in. He ruled a quiet removal would be in everyone’s interest.
Now, as the Mercedes sped along the quiet Dahlem avenues, von Helmholtz glanced at the collapsed figure next to him. The posture was at odds with the evidence. “I was on the phone all night because of you.”
From somewhere behind a pathetic and defeated face came lingering defiance. “What for? Why didn’t you call me?”
“Know somebody called Schwartz?”
The consul almost taunted him. “Schwartz? Of course.”
“Tell me about him.”
“Nothing to tell. A professional acquaintance, pure and simple.”
“You never suspected he might be…questionable?”
Just another professional acquaintance, was the answer, like dozens, amongst whom was a Chief of Protocol as well. All above board. The voice trailed off in disgust.
“If what I’ve seen is true, you’ve betrayed the trust of many people. On my side they wanted you declared persona non grata for what you and Schwartz were up to, but someone on your side put a foot down. Persona non grata. It would have been quite an achievement.” An exclamation of more defiance was followed by an expression of utter disbelief. Von Helmholtz decided to administer shock. “You may be the most two-faced person I have ever met.” As the consul digested this, von Helmholtz continued. “Why did you take up with Schwartz? I’d like your version.”
Hanbury’s voice dropped. Some of the fight was coming out. There wasn’t much to say. He occasionally had a drink with Schwartz to talk about their work. He once located a rare book for him at Geissler’s. When headquarters demanded reports, Schwartz helped with analysis and background, a favour in return for finding him the book. But the information could have come from anyone, from the Chief of Protocol, for example.
“I read the reports,” von Helmholtz said. “Clever documents. Penetrating. But ideologically disturbing in spots.” The information faxed by Graf Bornhof had taken hours to absorb. “I don’t think you’re admitting everything you know,” von Helmholtz said. “You didn’t suspect anything? You never worried what Schwartz might be?”
The consul shook his head. Schwartz was the husband of a friend and that was all.
“There’s more to it than that.” In a dull tone, like someone reciting lottery numbers, von Helmholtz described Schwartz as a leading figure in a small organization with questionable political objectives. They wanted a halt to what they saw as a slide to political weakness, to an enfeeblement of the state. The members were well-placed and well-to-do. Schwartz was the thinker, the ideologue. His task was to draw up a political platform and action plan that would look reasonable and doable.
Hanbury, recognizing some of the language, stiffened.
The Chief of Protocol continued. “They have an extreme, conservative agenda, ultra-right, but it’s cunningly presented. Some people would see it as far-sighted. Such thinking touches tender nerves, Tony. It’s unclear how far Schwartz and his clique would be prepared to go. I’m informed that some time ago he began cultivating the neo-Nazi scene. So, once more, for my own peace of mind, tell me about your role? Are you a closet neo-fascist.”
“A closet neo-fascist! Gerhard! For God’s sake!”
The Mercedes had turned onto the autobahn and was accelerating to the airport. Von Helmholtz recalled the other time he and Graf Bornhof had discussed a file. That time, they agreed it drew absurd conclusions. This time, Graf Bornhof said the material was not conjectural; it was irrefutable. The consul had to go. But von Helmholtz had doubts, and Hanbury’s reaction sowed more doubt. He decided to test him further. “The irony is,” von Helmholtz said calmly, “that not long ago certain people tried to convince me you were a neo-communist. Remember our talk about Günther Rauch?”
The consul made silent gestures. His disbelief was so colossal that he was barely capable of finding words. “Idiotic,” he said at last. “I’m not a neo-fascist. I’m not a neo-communist. I’m not a neo-anything.”
“Certain people think there’s a connection of sorts between Günther Rauch and Schwartz.”
The material from Graf Bornhof setting out a conspiracy theory linked the early period of the consul’s activities in Berlin to what he did in the last months. For von Helmholtz this had been the least acceptable part of the new file. Facts twisted to support a pre-conceived idea, he had said. It destroys the credibility of the argument. Graf Bornhof quickly backed off. The new file stood on its own, he claimed. It didn’t need to be linked to anything. But von Helmholtz put the connection to the consul all the same, to see the reaction. “Certain people,” he said, as vaguely as before, “think you took up with Günther Rauch to lay a smokescreen. They believe you wanted to create an impression of being connected to the far left to hide your real intention – which is to advance the interests of the far right. Your reports have been interpreted as hiding a neo-fascist agenda. Did you really come to Berlin to help Schwartz lay his hands on politically destructive information?”
Hanbury could take no more. “It is utterly ridiculous,” he said meekly.
“That may be, but some people don’t think so.” Von Helmholtz was still unsure. Why didn’t the consul open up? As blandly as before, he turned the tourniquet still tighter. “Most of what I know is not ridiculous at all. You’ve been seen – photographed in fact – with Schwartz in some kind of neo-Nazi club. More damning is what you did for him in the Stasi files. What can you tell me about that?”
Hanbury’s head sank into his hands. An urgent, broken whispering began. The rear seat became a confessional. Yes, he worked the Stasi files. Schwartz was doing a monograph on Nazi war criminals. Cooperation between former Nazis and the Stasi would be one dimension. He asked for help. And why not? Revelations from the files were in the papers every day. Access to the Normannenstrasse complex was no problem. But the idea from the beginning was to look for former Nazis, not abet the far right. And, yes, there was an outing to Potsdam. An unguarded remark about skinheads had been taken by Schwartz as a challenge. “I was there for twenty minutes, Gerhard. I wasn’t comfortable. I never want to go near a place like that again.”
Stacked against all that emotion, von Helmholtz knew, were hard facts. He did not relent. “You spent a week doing Schwartz’s bidding in the Stasi files to flesh out a paragraph or two for a monograph?” he said incredulously. “A whole week?” Hanbury now let all he knew flow. He described the process, Schwartz providing names, he tracking them down, going ever deeper into the f
iles.
“You found what Schwartz wanted?”
“Yes.”
“Schwartz was happy?”
Hanbury nodded.
“And you were convinced you were looking for Nazi war criminals.”
“At the end I suspected some of them were not.”
“Why?”
“I found a room. DDB. The files there referred to people too young to have been Nazis and they didn’t seem involved with Nazi things – the death camps, extermination of the Jews, all those things. But most of the information I took out made little sense to me.”
“It did to Schwartz?”
“It seemed to.”
Von Helmholtz had the full picture now. He felt tired. Throughout the night he pressed Graf Bornhof to provide all the information, not just carefully chosen pieces. After a further stream of faxes, a few pieces began to fit. The constitution’s protectors had tried to trace Hanbury’s paths criss-crossing through the files, but failed. He had handled too many indices; the routes were too random. So law enforcement got involved and broke into Schwartz’s university office, where they found neatly ordered bundles of cards covered front and back with notes in the consul’s handwriting.
“You were not looking for old Nazis, Tony,” von Helmholtz said wearily. “You were picking out Stasi collaborators in the west. DDB: Deutsch-Deutsche Beziehungen. Inner German Relations, that’s what you were looking at. Dozens of West Germans, well-known and in high places. You were handing Schwartz one political time bomb after another.”
Hanbury, spirit crushed and in a hoarse voice, said he didn’t know, he really didn’t.
“Politicians, senior government officials, journalists, scientists, businessmen, artists, entertainers. That’s what you found in DDB. Some were simply paid spies, but others traded in controlled technologies, handled stolen works of art, siphoned off private money transfers from West to East, or supported terrorists. Schwartz planned to leak the information little by little. He wanted to create an atmosphere of the established elites everywhere being morally bankrupt and corrupt. Schwartz’s group would then agitate – in the media, on the opinion pages, through publishing houses – for a clean-up of all the elements that cooperated with the East German regime over the years. Eventually, who knows, an investigation, maybe a parliamentary committee might have been struck. In a situation like that, a fresh political movement with a clear direction and no links to the Communists, embodying the old Prussian virtue of order might do well. As for the skinheads – I don’t know – perhaps he saw them as having potential to become the move-ment’s workers after some indoctrination. Would it have worked? Perhaps. Perhaps not.”
The Mercedes arrived at the airport. Hanbury sat transfixed. He asked who found out, who recognized him on the photo, but he met a wall of silence. At the terminal the barons spilled out of the BMW. Von Helmholtz went to talk to them and came back with one. “Horst here will take your luggage and check you in. We’ve got twenty minutes. Let’s walk a bit.”
“Who recognized me on the photo?” Hanbury repeated. “Who knew I was working on the files? Is Kurt Stobbe part of it?”
Von Helmholtz nudged Hanbury to start walking. “No,” he said. “Not Stobbe.”
“Did our spooks feed yours? Is that how you got my reports?”
“No.”
“So your side fed my side.”
“Not my side, Tony. Information has been coming to us.”
Hanbury did a mental check. “The Yanks,” he said.
“Not necessarily, Tony,” von Helmholtz said. “Not them.”
All the questions that plagued Hanbury throughout the night came gushing out. If not the Yanks, then who? Who checked his Stasi file? Who organized the Christmas phantoms? Who was listening in Friedensdorf? Who got hold of his reports? Who observed him in the Stasi complex? And why was a photographer handy in Potsdam? Hanbury beat his forehead with a palm. “I’ve had all night to think about it. It’s systematic, but I can’t see any links. Is Gundula part of it? Is she working for them?”
“Not Gundula.” Von Helmholtz’s eyes bored ahead, like someone wanting no distraction, someone wanting to forget. “You don’t want to know,” he advised curtly. “Take my word for it.”
“I may keep trying to figure it out all the same,” Hanbury said bitterly. He took a deep breath. “Well, I’m paying for my mistakes. What’s happening to Schwartz?”
Von Helmholtz was severe. “Your judgement, to say the least, was poor. You’re getting off mild. Keep that in mind. As for Schwartz, he’s been questioned. I’m told he was composed. Since he no longer had your material stashed away in some hiding place he lacked bargaining chips. I suppose he weighed the pros and cons. Did he want a leaked picture of him on the front page identifying him as a suspected right-wing extremist? Did he want the same leaked story to say that he might soon face investigative custody of indefinite length. I’m sure he thought about it and saw reasons to cooperate. I understand he did. In return…” A resignation came over von Helmholtz. “…he will continue a quiet academic life.”
“Hushed up,” The consul concluded. Von Helmholtz looked neither right nor left. “He hasn’t, strictly speaking, broken any laws.”
“And the Stasi collaborators in West Germany?”
Von Helmholtz didn’t reply.
“Hushed up too?”
“It’s too early to be sure. I understand you matched cover names with real names on the basis of intuition. So far there’s no direct evidence that the pack – the Scorpions and Midnight Angels – are the personalities you assumed they were. They may eventually be identified, after due process.”
“No one called to account…” Hanbury said.
“It’s not something we are traditionally good at.”
“…except me, and in half an hour it will be as if I’ve never been here either.”
“You’ll be better off in South Africa.”
They were half-way around the airport’s inner circuit. With the time left shrunk to minutes, Hanbury denied this. He seemed set vehemently to contradict it, but after a pause he became thoughtful instead. This was the one place in the world he might have stayed, he said, to have been somehow part of it.
“Gundula?” Von Helmholtz asked. He finally glanced sideways at the consul and saw him nod. “It would be a mistake to stay because of her. I would advise against it.” Fresh bafflement formulated on Hanbury’s face. “I mean,” von Helmholtz said, “Gundula’s staying would be a mistake. She has no future here. Your places – South Africa, Brazil, India – that’s where her future lies.”
“When she finds out why I left, it’s not too likely she’ll want to have much to do with me. Closet neo-fascists aren’t her cup of tea. Simpletons and dupes don’t rank high either.” The Chief of Protocol muttered regret, but had he understood right? She didn’t know he was leaving? He hadn’t called her? Hanbury said he didn’t know where she was, only that she was somewhere on the Baltic coast with her family. In three days she would be on a railway platform forming the conclusion he’d run out on her.
“You underestimate her.”
“I haven’t handed her too many reasons for having a high opinion of me.”
“Write her,” Von Helmholtz commanded. “Do it fast. Send it off quick. Invite her to South Africa. I’ll explain to her you were caught up in things not of your doing.”
Hanbury remained doubtful, but the Chief of Protocol was insistent. He belaboured his point until Hanbury acquiesced. They were back at the entrance to the terminal. “Does Schwartz’s wife know?” Hanbury then asked. This irritated von Helmholtz. “I doubt it. Is it important?”
“She inherited Geissler’s bookstore. She offered me a partnership.”
“In that case, it’s a very good thing you’re leaving.”
Hanbury thought about this. He stood for fifteen, perhaps twenty seconds, looking at the Chief of Protocol, realizing he would need longer to think that through. Horst was motioning. “Visit me, Gerhar
d.”
The Chief of Protocol looked stern, then broke into a thin smile. “I will, but not until Gundula is there.” The agency reps came up, tugged at the consul, and led him away.
Von Helmholtz got back into his limousine. Before he was outside the terminal his office had patched him through to the police chief in Schwerin and before they were at the first traffic light he had issued an order. “I need to know where somebody called Dieter Jahn is,” he instructed. “He’s on vacation somewhere on the Baltic coast.” Within the hour, von Helmholtz was dialling an obscure guest house on the northern tip of the island Rügen. “Haus Kap Arkona,” a crackly voice said. “Gundula Jahn, please,” the Chief of Protocol replied with sonorous importance. When Gundula heard what had happened, she told von Helmholtz he needn’t bother with arrangements for forwarding mail from Tony. “Think it over,” he cautioned. “Don’t make a rash decision.” “Too late.” Gundula said. “I’ve made up my mind. I’m going back to Berlin now. I’ll wait there for his letter.”
The former consul couldn’t complain about Arnold’s arrangements. He had the last seat on the plane, first class, all the way to Jo’burg. The journey began with champagne. Calmer now – internal reparations ongoing – he gathered his thoughts, about the place he was leaving, and where he was heading. Sporadic questions crowded in. If not the Yanks, then who? Who intercepted his reports?You don’t want to know. But he did. Someone he knew?
A change of thought.
Your places – that’s where Gundula’s future lies. Von Helmholtz the optimist. The irony was that Gundula’s career as a journalist died with Gregor Reich, whereas his stay ended on account of Schwartz. Gregor searched for truth; Schwartz planned to abuse truth. Both of them, he and Gundula, had dabbled in truth, and it did them in. More champagne? an attendant asked. Yes please. Leave the bottle. Thank you.
The Berlin Assignment Page 49