After landing at Tempelhof I took a cab ride, courtesy of a Turkish driver who ran red lights and had a death wish, and booked into a modest hotel in Friedrichstrasse, close to Unter Den Linden. I’d changed my appearance by bleaching my dark hair blond and wearing a pair of fashionably oversized glasses with clear lenses. I wore a navy suit, shirt, no tie, and a wool blend overcoat with velvet revere collar favoured by bankers and high-end estate agents. Playing by Moscow Rules, the highest level of tradecraft, I checked the lobby to make sure that nobody struck a discordant note. It was just me and two receptionists – one male, one female.
The Israelis are the best in the business but I believed that, even if they cottoned on to my new whereabouts, I’d be long gone before they got a bead on me. At least that’s what I hoped. To be safe, once I’d entered my room, I checked it for listening devices and explosives, starting at the door, including the lock, and making a close examination of the carpet, ceiling, window and, Mossad’s speciality, the telephone. I did the same in the bathroom. Afterwards, I measured the distance from the second floor to the ground below and mapped out an escape route. If I ran into trouble on this excursion, there would be no help from Messrs Heckler & Koch. I was flying solo.
Satisfied with the room, I took out the file and recommitted to memory what passed for an obituary on Lars Pallenberg. I freely admit that he was not what I expected. For a start, he had blond hair and looked more like an economics lecturer than an artist. Fine-boned, he had blue eyes, even features and a reflective expression suggesting that he was a man of intelligence and given to introspection. I guessed he was a sensitive soul. Is this what had turned McCallen on? If so, it put me out of the running. Probably my height, around five eleven, Pallenberg did not look particularly fit or like the kind of guy who worked out. Standing still and lifting a paintbrush is not the same as moving fast and lifting a semi-automatic.
McCallen had also thoughtfully provided me with a rundown of Dieter Benz, Pallenberg’s old art school friend and right-wing agitator. Sleepy-eyed, with the dissolute appearance of a habitual drug user, his expression concealed ruthless intelligence. He’d been arrested countless times for racial abuse and incitement to violence against foreigners. This was the peripheral stuff. Security services suspected that he was plotting a campaign of terror, targets and locations unspecified. Reading his profile, it seemed to me that Benz had retro leanings, harking back to the 1970s and ‘golden age’ of the Baader-Meinhof group. I could see how men like him drew parallels. Replace the opposition to the war in Vietnam with the war in Afghanistan; disgust with rampant capitalism, evidenced by a number of spectacular bank raids at the time, with the current crisis in the banking system. Hatred of Jews was also on his agenda, but added to his hate-list were immigrants of any persuasion, and Muslims. Germany had done its fair share to offer sanctuary to others. It hadn’t always gone as smoothly as it might. The average German was sick of propping up sick European states so, for Benz, part of his pitch was an easy play to a disgruntled German electorate.
Once I’d got everything straight in my mind, I called Pallenberg’s grieving family. A woman, who I assumed was Gisela Pallenberg – Lars’s mother – answered the phone in German. I started off by asking whether she spoke English.
‘Ja, a little.’
‘My name is Stephen Porter. I knew Lars well.’
‘An English friend?’ Surprise, then hope, flared in her voice.
‘I’ve been travelling through Russia for the past few months and have only recently heard the news of his death.’
‘We are so terribly shocked. We still don’t really know what happened.’
‘Would it be possible for me to come and visit?’
‘You are here in Berlin?’
‘For a few days, yes.’
‘Then you must come. Can you visit tomorrow?’
‘Of course, what time?’
‘Wait one moment.’
I listened to a muffled exchange that grew in sound and clarity. A man came on the line, Werner Pallenberg, I guessed, his delivery gruff and final. ‘Mr Porter?’
‘Yes.’
‘My wife is mistaken. We have no wish to see you.’
‘But –’
‘That’s all we have to say. Goodbye.’
I don’t easily do ‘no’. Had Mrs Pallenberg opened her heart to me, I’d have respected the woman’s sensibilities and taken the next flight back. But she hadn’t. She’d been overruled.
The next morning I took breakfast in the hotel dining room and around ten o’clock stepped out onto the street and headed towards Unter den Linden under a chilly, two-tone sky. Like a greyhound released from its trap, I buzzed with excitement. It was good to be out and about in a city that was foreign, yet familiar to me, and I quickly made my way down what was arguably the most famous street in Berlin. Here, statues stared down from the tops of buildings like Roman gods watching over the mortals below. Heading east, I crossed over where the River Spree intersects and passed the Marienkirche, a lonely church overshadowed by its near neighbour, the Fernsehturm, or Television Tower, on my right.
Most of Berlin is clean and free from litter but there are odd pockets of resistance. Karl-Liebnecht-Strasse is a busy road flanked by large, unattractive grey buildings, like old containers rusting away, covered in graffiti and in the process of demolition. Whether it was the grim reminder of a city torn in two by checkpoints, Cold War politics and casual brutality, or the fact that the air temperature had dipped, I felt a sudden stutter of unease.
Stopping suddenly, as if I’d forgotten something, I twisted around, taking a long look back. A group of Chinese students, with a guide in tow, headed my way. Beyond, male and female pedestrians, young and old. Nobody looked shifty or out of place, or interested in me. No one had a suspect comma, or listening device in their ear, or talked into their cuff, or muttered to themselves or others. A glance at the road revealed nothing I didn’t already know. I could have put my anxiety down to a sudden attack of nerves. I’d been out of the game for over a year. I no longer carried. I was out of my comfort zone. But my instincts are strong and, for reasons I didn’t like to consider, my foe-detector was on high alert. Rattled, I headed straight to the nearest café.
It was dark, ratty and mostly empty. I took a table right at the back, near a fire exit, and with a good view of the door. In true Germanic fashion, a jolly, dark-haired waiter with a round face and excellent English appeared. I ordered coffee and cake and, under the guise of studying the menu, watched for anyone entering the premises. Apart from a young mother pushing a child in a buggy who came in a few moments later, the only customers were me and another guy finishing a meal. I started to chill and my order arrived.
‘There you go, sir. Are you visiting for the first time?’
‘No.’
‘You have business here?’
I glanced up, met the young waiter’s eye, and cast him the type of look that would silence a comedian on amphetamines. He got the message and scurried off.
The coffee was good – strong and bitter – the cake, which came in the form of a doughnut, less so. I ate, drank and thought about what had happened. Except, nothing had happened. I’d got spooked, that was all. My mind switched to McCallen. What exactly had she got me into?
It’s almost impossible to know a person completely. People are strange by definition. I knew bits about her, maybe more than some, her spy status making her remote and maddeningly unreachable. But one thing I knew for sure, McCallen always had a hidden agenda. She’d be looking at you one way with those big green eyes while her feet pointed in another direction. Had she been foolish enough to mention my leave of absence to someone she shouldn’t? Was she in cahoots with Mossad? If she saw a way to advance her career, she’d have no hesitation in shopping me.
I paid and, glancing both ways, set off. The two-tone sky had decided to snow and I rolled up the collar of my jacket.
Pallenberg’s grieving family lived in Prenzlauer Berg,
a recently gentrified area of Berlin short on accommodation and big on bars and cafés. Artists and writers had once monopolised the area, but in the wake of redevelopment, the hard core had fled to other areas like Friedrichshain and the Turkish enclave of Kreuzberg. In recent years, Prenzlauer Berg had become a magnet for young professionals seduced by wide-open green spaces and contemporary architecture. Conversely, it had also been the target for a spate of arson attacks, a case of the ‘have-nots’ rising up against the ‘haves’, the latter eager to dance to a man like Dieter Benz’s anti-immigrant, racist tune.
My destination was a renovated factory divided into apartments. Crossing a park and threading my way through a couple of squares, I appreciated the appeal of the area. Wide streets, galleries and cafés gave the location an arty, open vibe, the odd building waiting patiently to be restored like a rotten tooth in a set of perfectly maintained molars.
Snow gusting around me, I hurried towards a glass-fronted building with loft-style architecture, including a community rooftop terrace and traditional Berlin balconies with granite windowsills. I imagined an interior of light oak parquet flooring, and white and chrome state of the art sanitary ware.
Inside the main entrance, I took an elevator to the third floor. I was hoping to get lucky and catch Mrs Pallenberg at home while her husband was at work. Stepping out, I almost collided with a young woman.
‘Sorry.’ With a heavy German accent, she spoke in English, which immediately got my attention. Small, petite, with big eyes the colour of tannin and a sweetly dimpled chin, she appraised me with a smile, as if she knew me. Did I have a label plastered on my forehead?
‘Should I know you?’ I said.
She flashed another smile. ‘You’re Stephen, aren’t you? Stephen Porter?’
‘Lars’s friend, yes.’ My mind teemed with possibilities, McCallen setting me up the clear favourite. Was it possible that this small creature in her pixie boots, layered clothing and suspiciously easy smile was about to take me out?
‘Mathilde Brommer,’ she said. ‘I’d hoped you’d show.’
I can usually cover my feelings well, but my guard was down. Call it stranger in a strange land syndrome. Mathilde glanced over her shoulder. ‘You’ll never get in. Werner is very protective of his wife. They’ve had a bad time with the press, you see.’
‘I understand, and Mr Pallenberg, is he at home now?’
‘Ja.’
‘Right,’ I said. Inside, I was uncertain. Outside, I maintained eye contact.
Mathilde tilted her head. Her shoulder-length wavy hair fell to one side, her exotic scent circling me like smoke around a fire. ‘I don’t remember Lars talking about you.’
‘We met in London.’
‘You’re an artist?’
‘I sell art. I’m a dealer.’
‘Then you must know Lorna Spencer, his agent.’
‘Of course.’ Lorna Spencer was the name assumed by McCallen. ‘Are you an artist too?’
The smile faded a little. ‘Yes, didn’t Lars tell you?’
‘I have a terrible memory,’ I said, apologetically. ‘I don’t remember him mentioning you.’
Pain invaded her pixie features. ‘We were engaged.’ She flushed deeply. ‘Didn’t you know he dumped me so that he could marry Lorna Spencer?’
CHAPTER SEVEN
‘Do you have time for lunch?’ It was the best I could come up with in the circumstances. Underneath, I was furious. McCallen had put my life at risk so that I could investigate her dead lover. Marriage, for Chrissakes. A huge part of me wanted to knock this business on the head and catch the next flight back.
‘Sure,’ she said.
Mathilde took me to a bar off Kollwitzplatz. Dark and cavernous, with orange and brown furnishings, it was populated by an eclectic crowd of students noisily playing ping-pong on an old table, ‘arty’ types and, as Mathilde described them, ‘anarcho-punks’. I must have been the oldest there. Techno music popped out of the speakers, not enough to deafen, just enough to annoy, but the beer on tap was good and I badly needed a drink. Mathilde ordered Augustiner, a beer brewed in Munich, and plates of garlic sausage with fried potatoes.
‘How long were you with Lars?’ I said.
‘We met when I was twenty. Love at first sight, or so I thought.’ She frowned and her eyes darkened.
‘Don’t let the break-up trash your memories.’
She flicked a sad, grateful little smile. ‘We moved in together after three months and for the next ten years were inseparable.’
‘Until his move to London?’
‘Ja.’
‘Which was?’
‘Three years ago. In the beginning, I’d fly back and forth, but he became evasive and secretive, which wasn’t like him at all. He was always so honest and open. I put it down to his increasing success and new circle of friends.’
‘He was hanging out with …’ I broke off, as if searching for the right description.
‘A lot of wealthy types with ambitious plans for him,’ Mathilde stepped in. ‘I knew straightaway that something was wrong.’
‘Because it was out of character?’
‘Totally. Lars has always been so grounded. He had nothing in common with those people.’
‘What about his friendship with Dieter Benz?’
Mathilde’s eyes widened in surprise. ‘What friendship? Lars told you about Dieter?’ She stared at me as if I’d suddenly found the ability to speak fluent German.
‘You knew him?’
‘Everyone knows him. Dieter was and always will be a creep.’
‘And a revolutionary, according to Lars.’
Mathilde’s face screwed up in disgust. ‘Dieter casts himself as a romantic freedom fighter, a nationalist. It is easy, is it not, in these uncertain times, to assume such roles?’
‘So why was Lars involved with Dieter?’
‘He wasn’t,’ she said, suddenly angry. ‘Lars loathed Dieter. He thought he was cunning and untrustworthy.’
‘Lars shared his radical ideas.’ I was running on fumes with this.
‘That’s crap. Lars didn’t have a political bone in his body.’
‘Are you sure about that?’
Mathilde looked at me with a mixture of suspicion and derision. ‘How long did you know him?’
I shrugged. It was a fair point. Silence opened up between us. It gave me time to think. I’d pushed her hard because this woman had known Lars well. She knew his beliefs and what he stood for. Lars would have to be highly motivated to take the type of risks McCallen demanded of him. Penetrating a right-wing group prone to violence led by someone like Benz required nerve and skill, and Lars didn’t sound the type or up to the mark. I wondered in fairly graphic detail what McCallen had done to corrupt and charm Lars into doing her dirty work.
Mathilde took a long drink of beer. Her hand shook and the bangles on her wrist rattled. She looked away then looked back, as if gathering herself.
The food arrived. Mathilde picked up a fork and speared a piece of sausage. ‘Gisela mentioned that you were in Russia when Lars was killed.’
I took a mouthful, chewed and swallowed. ‘I travel often to St Petersburg. I’m principally interested in iconic art, although I have a number of artists with whom I do business who paint other forms. They get a better price through me,’ I explained. ‘What type of art do you do?’
‘Conceptual.’ To me, this meant a pile of bricks, stuffed fish and dirty knickers. Mathilde rummaged through her bag and rooted out a typically arty business card and handed it to me. I made a play of studying it. ‘Different from Lars, then.’ I’d checked him out. He’d specialised in exquisite figurative work, women in all shapes and sizes, beautiful, some exotic, each oozing sexuality, stuff I could get my head around and wouldn’t mind hanging on my walls. I briefly wondered whether McCallen had posed for him.
A fleeting smile touched Mathilde’s lips. ‘He was extremely talented.’
I pocketed the card, left another pause,
hoping that she would reveal a detail that would help clear the fog in my head. She didn’t. I continued to eat. The dish was flavoursome and earthy, like McCallen’s laugh. Hell, was I going to corner her when I got back.
Eventually, I rolled the conversation on once more. ‘You remain close to the Pallenbergs?’
‘I do.’ Her voice trailed. I could see that she remained deeply hurt by what had happened to her.
‘I’m sorry.’ And I genuinely was.
She shot me an angry glance. ‘You know the damn woman never even made it to his funeral?’ She meant McCallen.
‘I didn’t know that.’ It sounded thin. I knew it. She knew it. The smiley exterior slipped.
‘How well do you know Miss Spencer?’
‘I know her professionally, nothing more. She’d passed on several of Lars’s paintings to me. It’s how I originally met him.’
‘Which pieces of work?’ There was a suspicious light in her eyes. And she wasn’t buying Lars’s ‘caught in crossfire’ death any more than the rest of us. She wasn’t buying me either. I reeled off the titles itemised in the file.
‘She is who she says she is?’ Mathilde threw me a fierce look.
I blinked and remained impassive. ‘Who?’
‘Lorna Spencer.’
‘I don’t understand.’ My fork was poised mid-air as I gave my best impression of confusion. To be honest, it wasn’t much of a stretch.
‘She looks good on paper, but that’s it,’ Mathilde said with venom. ‘The art world is small. Nobody I know has ever heard of her.’
I forced a smile. ‘I assure you, her credentials are sound.’
Her eyes met mine. She didn’t say it but I knew what she was thinking: How good are yours? I leant towards her.
‘What do you think really happened to Lars?’
‘She bewitched him.’
I understood. I’d been fairly bewitched myself and that was dangerous. Emotions kill.
Mathilde looked around the bar, dropped her voice a note. ‘She got him involved in something, something that led to his murder,’ she hissed.
I put down my knife and fork. ‘That’s a fairly heavy statement.’
Final Target Page 4