I hadn’t been here for a couple of months, not since I’d been transferred to Berlin Centre, but the guard’s behaviour hadn’t changed. He examined my clapperboard, noting that the stamps were up to date, then transferred his attention to my mugshot. His eyes switched between the photograph and my face, and I dutifully removed my hat so he could see my ears and hairline more clearly.
He returned my clapperboard and, with a salute, silently raised the boom.
I left my Trabant in the car park, mentally going through my short list of victims—which of my old colleagues I could sweet-talk or otherwise induce to check the visa applications for a West German called Seiffert?
I breathed in the familiar atmosphere as I stepped through the doors. Wofasept disinfectant, floor polish and hard soap were the standard components of that institutional smell, along with the partially burnt hydrocarbons from the exhausts of two-stroke motors on the main road outside. But the clubhouse, as I used to call the HA VI offices, also had a distinctive, coppery tang from the river just beyond the windows.
I stood for a moment at the bottom of the stairwell, and my nostalgia was my undoing.
“Comrade Second Lieutenant.”
The voice came from behind me, through the double doors held open by a sergeant. As I stiffened to attention, a tall, narrow captain with slicked back hair entered the stairwell.
“Comrade Captain Funke,” I addressed my ex-boss. This was the bastard who’d sent me to a landfill site on punishment assignment. I’d started the mission with poking through stinking slime and waste on his behalf, and it went downhill form there.
“An official visit?” the captain enquired as he pulled off his pigskin gloves and started up the stairs. “If you have a moment …” the sentence tailed away as he disappeared round the half-landing and out of sight.
I glanced at the sergeant, who was still at the front door, letting the winter air in, and decided I had no choice but to follow the captain up to his office.
“Settling in at the Centre?” Funke enquired as the secretary brought a tray. “I hear you’re doing well.”
There it was, I could relax. Word of my supposed success in the Bruno operation had got around, and Captain Funke had obviously decided I was worth a measure of tactical courtesy. We were sitting in the comfortable seating on the far side of the room, well away from his desk, typewriter table and safe.
I didn’t bother responding to Funke’s polite enquiries. I’ve already told you what I thought of the way the Bruno situation ended, but I wasn’t about to give him the benefit of my opinion.
“Your transfer to Berlin Centre came rather suddenly, we didn’t get a chance to say our goodbyes, tie up the loose ends,” Funke said as he poured the coffee. The smell of real coffee wasn’t the only thing in the air. My nose was picking up on something else: Funke’s attitude. “I didn’t get a chance to explain the reasons for your deployment to Schöneiche.”
This should be good, I accepted the cup and sat back. Was I about to receive the closest thing to an apology I’d ever had from a senior officer?
“You should know, sending you to Schöneiche landfill wasn’t my idea. I’d just taken over the position here; the paperwork was waiting on my desk and … well, orders.”
Since the captain was being so polite, I felt I could afford to give him a little push: “So if sending me to investigate workers on the waste dump wasn’t your idea …”
There was a moment’s silence as Funke stared into his coffee. He was doing what we all do: adding, subtracting and solving multiple power equations. In a moment, I’d find out whether Funke thought I was worth a straight answer.
“The orders came from HV A,” he finally said, quickly putting the cup to his lips as if to hide the words he’d just spoken.
HV A—the foreign intelligence department. They keep themselves apart from the rest of the Firm, thinking they’re better than the rest of us. But they’d obstructed the Bruno case, using the most extreme means available, and now I’d found out they’d been interfering in my career.
If I were the paranoid type, I’d say it was personal.
By the time we finished our coffee, Funke and I had started to get used to each other’s company. We were never going to be pals, but we’d begun the long process of sussing out whether we could be allies. The thought of asking Funke for Seiffert’s visa forms crossed my mind, but trusting the captain that much would have felt a little keen this early in the relationship.
Instead, I dropped a couple of floors and knocked on the second door on the left.
The occupant of the room was a second lieutenant who looked like he shouldn’t have passed the fitness requirements for entry into the Ministry. But here he was, sitting in his uniform behind a desk, so he must have managed to scrape through.
When he saw who had arrived, his brow smoothed, and with a smile on his coupon he stood up to unlock the steel cupboard. Clear alcohol and two glasses made an appearance.
“Coffee?” he asked, the pitch of his voice not quite masking the sarcasm.
“No thanks, just had a pot with the captain,” I replied in the same tone.
Second Lieutenant Matthias Stoyan hesitated for a moment, uncertain whether I was joking. A shrug, then he poured the schnapps and handed over my glass.
“Your health, Reim—good to see you again.”
“You too, Matse.”
We knocked back the spirits.
“What do you want?” he asked as he topped us up again.
“Now why would you think I want something?” I took my glass and sipped it, no rush.
“I’ve not seen you since old Fröhlich was reassigned all of a sudden—you two were close, you know what happened to him?” I shrugged, and Matse carried on. “Then I heard you’d gone to work for the opposition.”
“We’re all on the same side, Matse,” I chided. “Even those of us at Berlin Centre.”
“You’re not in the clubhouse any more, that’s what I’m trying to say.”
I liked the way he called this place the clubhouse, as if a little part of me had been left behind when I moved on.
“What have they got you doing over there?” he asked.
“The usual. Paperwork. But I’m fairly sure I’m the only one in the section with any field experience, so with a bit of luck, I’ll be taking a trip to the seaside soon.”
Matse raised an eyebrow at that, and after another sip of the vodka, I told him what I needed.
“Let me guess—you’d prefer your name not to be attached to this particular request?” Stoyan poured himself another measure, but left my glass out that round. “Nothing changes.”
“Where’s the problem?” I coaxed. “It’s still your job, isn’t it? Collating and checking the visa applications—the local offices send copies, you double check they’re not letting in anyone they shouldn’t.”
“That’s still my job. But look—if he’s coming next week, then the visa application will have long been processed and approved. If I go down to the archives now, they’ll want to know why I’m interested in something I should have dealt with weeks ago.” Stoyan sipped his schnapps again, working out how much damage to his reputation my request could cause.
It was time to apply some pressure. Blackmail is good, but sometimes you get better results with a lighter touch. Life doesn’t always have to be brutal, sometimes generosity works just as well: “I’ve got Russian vodka—the good stuff. Export quality.” I held out the bottle, label showing.
Stoyan took the bottle of fusel, admired the label for a moment, then: “Alright. If I can’t do a friend a good turn …”
“Usluga za uslugu,” I replied in my best Russian accent.
8
Berlin Treptow
It didn’t take long for Matse to come back with the news: Merkur had been granted a visa for a seven-day stay in District Rostock—a room was reserved at the Hotel Neptun, starting Tuesday.
I finished off my glass of export-quality Russian vodka
and took my feet off his desk.
“Thanks Matse.” I shook his hand and let myself out.
On the way back to Berlin Centre, I considered my next moves. Now I knew that Major Pozdniakov’s tip-off was sound, I could put in an official request to search the visa records for details of his visit. If anyone was paying attention, I’d get points for prescience.
But I needed to get the timing right—I couldn’t afford to move too quickly, if I delivered the news first thing tomorrow morning, the brass would have enough time to dream up a stupid scheme or two. Much better to request the paperwork in the afternoon—it wouldn’t be processed until after the weekend, which would give me the chance to get my own plans in order before letting the upper levels interfere.
9
Berlin Lichtenberg
As it turned out, I’d misjudged the timing. I sent the request for Merkur’s visa application before I left on Friday evening, but one of the archivists over at HA VI must have been doing overtime. The files were waiting for me when I stumbled in on Monday morning, several hours sooner than expected.
I sat at my desk, head clouded after the weekend’s waking vigil, and read the visa application forms, wondering whether anyone would notice if I sat on them until the afternoon. Trouble is, if they did notice—and eventually they would—then I’d be facing more than a few difficult questions.
So I put the forms in a folder and went upstairs to see if Major Kühn had bothered to come in yet.
“Is it urgent?” the secretary demanded.
It was urgent, today being Monday and Merkur due in Warnemünde by Tuesday afternoon.
“He moves fast, your Merkur,” noted Kühn when I was finally allowed to see him. He approved of the initiative I’d shown by checking the visa applications, but the good mood soon turned earnest when he pulled a file from his safe and called for his secretary.
“Contact everyone on this list, arrange a meeting for midday,” he told her. “Make sure they’ll all be here.”
The secretary took the list and went back to her office. The major peered at me through horn-rimmed glasses.
“Heym, make yourself available for the meeting—we may need you.”
I waited in the corridor outside the conference room and counted in the brass—the same caterpillar carriers as last time, all wearing serious faces, all staggering under the power and responsibility represented by the heavy braid on their shoulders. There was Major General Koschack of HV A, accompanied by Lieutenant Colonel Schur from HA II and Major Kühn standing by the door, nodding them in. He went in, and several braces of adjutants followed, the last one closing the door.
It didn’t take them long—I was on my second nail when the door opened again. Hastily pinching the cigarette out and stuffing it in my pocket, I straightened my back and waited for the debouchment, but instead of a stream of smug senior officers, only Koschack and his lackeys exited the room.
They left the door open, I could hear murmurs from within. Hoping to overhear, I shuffled along the wall until I was opposite the doorway. I still couldn’t understand the whispered conversation, so I edged a little further, just enough to peek around the door jamb.
Schur and Kühn were sitting opposite one another, each leaning over the table. The paperwork had already been packed away, the meeting about to end.
I began my silent shuffle in the other direction, back out of range of the occupants of the room, but too late.
“Comrade Heym—if you please,” called Major Kühn.
Ignoring his mistake—I doubted Kühn would ever bother to learn my name, I entered the room and stood to attention in front of the officers. The adjutants hovered on the edge of my vision, down at the far end.
“The committee notes your efforts,” Kühn said as he reached for his stack of files and signalled to one of the adjutants. “We have arranged for a secure line for you to brief First Lieutenant Sachse.”
Lieutenant Colonel Schur, whose department, HA II, had attempted to recruit Source Bruno, turned in his seat to see me better. His small eyes were magnified behind wide, plastic-rimmed glasses, a flabby chin camouflaged by a greying goatee beard.
“Permission to speak, Comrade Major?” I rapped out, still at attention.
“Thank you, Comrade Unterleutnant. Contact Captain Dupski about the call with First Lieutenant Sachse.”
Back in my office, I shut the door and went to stand by the window. My hands were drawn into fists so tight I didn’t feel I’d be able to unclench them for long enough to light a cigarette.
If I was to brief Sachse, that could mean only thing: he was being sent to Warnemünde to make contact with Merkur.
Of all the people to send after Merkur, they’d chosen Sachse!
Major Kühn himself had told me that Sachse was responsible for Bruno’s death, that Lieutenant Colonel Schur had been near apoplectic when he’d found out what had happened to his new source. Nevertheless, the three officers had just agreed Sachse should be the one to talk to Bruno’s grieving father.
I didn’t care if Sachse spoke to Merkur, but I did want to know who had killed Sanderling, and why. So far, Merkur’s arrival had been the first break in my unofficial investigation into my colleague’s untimely death.
I marched over to my desk, unclenching my fists for long enough to get the bottle out of the drawer, swearing as I poured myself some schnapps.
Sitting down, I got a cigarette going at the third try and took a puff, then another, hands steadier with each mouthful of nicotine and alcohol.
If I could make some progress in finding out why Sanderling had died, maybe she’d stop visiting me. I wouldn’t miss her cold presence in my bed every night.
10
Berlin Lichtenberg
I fired another cigarette, took this one slow, drank the second glass of schnapps slowly, too. Feeling more in control, I popped a Pfeffi and left my office in search of Captain Dupski.
I found him behind his desk. He gestured me in and lifted the telephone.
“Captain Dupski, ZAIG/II. Has the secure connection to Rostock been booked?” A pause for the answer, then he hung up.
“There’s too much traffic on the line,” he told me, picking up his pen. “Come back in an hour.”
What was Sachse doing up in Rostock? I’d assumed he was working from HV A, either here at Berlin Centre or at their operations centre just outside the city. But he was up on the coast—had he been posted there, or was he in the north for another operation?
As I was rising out of my chair, the door behind me opened, and Lieutenant Colonel Schur’s belly appeared.
Dupski and I stood to attention as the rest of Schur entered. He marched around the place a little, then, with both hands, gestured to us to sit. We remained standing, there was no spare chair for Schur, and if he couldn’t sit, neither could we.
Seeing our difficulty, the officer headed in my direction, and I stepped aside to allow him to take my place.
He and Dupski sank into their respective seats, and Schur crossed his legs. He looked at Dupski for a while, drumming his fingers on his knee, then turned slightly so that I was in view.
“Comrade Reim, isn’t it?”
“Jawohl, Genosse Oberstleutnant.” The lieutenant colonel had made the effort to find out my name, and that made me nervous.
“You reviewed the paperwork for the Bruno case?”
“As part of the operational analysis, I also interviewed all field operatives who had contact with the subject, Comrade Lieutenant Colonel.”
“But not Comrade Sachse?”
“Access to the team that interviewed the subject was denied. The Oberleutnant was part of that team, I believe he was on secondment to HA IX at the time.”
Schur drummed his fingers a bit more. “Why weren’t you given access?”
“No reason was given, Comrade Lieutenant Colonel.”
“But you’re familiar with the Bruno material?”
“I have extensive awareness of Operational Procedu
re Source Bruno.”
“And do you think Comrade Sachse is the best man to observe Codename Merkur?”
“Comrade, the interdepartmental committee made its-”
“Comrade Reim, save the verbiage! I want someone from Berlin Centre handling the task—can you suggest grounds for revisiting the decision to send Comrade Sachse?”
I glanced at Dupski, he was sitting behind his desk, wringing his hands. Probably wishing he wasn’t within hearing distance of this conversation.
“Well? Any reason not to send Sachse?” Schur demanded. He really did want an answer; perhaps I should think about it.
I didn’t want Sachse to do the job either. If he wasn’t given the task of liaising with Merkur then it may fall to me, and I was sure Bruno’s father must know something—why else had he been dancing the polka with us the previous week?
But what objective reasons could I give to prevent Sachse’s involvement? No point telling the lieutenant colonel that Sachse was responsible for Source Bruno’s death—he already knew that. And the only other thing I had on the HV A operative was that Bruno, before he died, had told my friend Holger that Sachse was a double agent.
It was pure hearsay, no proof of it, not even the circumstantial kind. So, unable to come up with the reason Schur was demanding, I kept shtum.
“Never mind,” he sighed as he levered himself out of the chair. “I’ll kick it upstairs, see what they say. Postpone any contact with Oberleutnant Sachse until you hear from me.” He fixed me with gibbous eyes, pointing a finger at me for good measure.
As he left, Dupski caught my eye. I shrugged. I could understand why Schur would be unhappy about Sachse’s involvement in Secondary Operation Merkur, but was the lieutenant colonel really going to go up against Major General Koschack?
But Schur was a caterpillar carrier, he could do what he wanted. I just hoped he wouldn’t drag me into his fight with the HV A.
Baltic Approach Page 3