The doorman opened up for me, but he didn’t smile the way he did for the Westerners. I ignored him, and once inside made straight for the lifts.
Above the main door, directed at the lifts, I murmured to myself as I pressed the button and waited. The cameras were discreetly let into the ceiling panels, not obvious unless you were looking. Entrance to library, view of reception desk. Those were the only ones I’d seen so far, but there had to be others—I just hadn’t spotted them yet.
The lift pinged, and I climbed aboard. I was alone in the car, and that suited me. No small talk about the storm outside or the comforts inside.
The lift flowed upwards to the sixteenth floor. As I exited, I pressed the button for eleven. I stood long enough to watch the doors slide shut and the indicator tick downwards.
The corridor was dimly lit, the carpet deep and new. A glance up and down to check all room doors were shut, and that no-one was about, then I went to find the stairs.
Up another storey, down the corridor, looking for room 1719, here it was: a door just like all the others, dark wood, polished brass numbers. The next door had no number, it was the one I wanted.
I knocked and pulled out my clapperboard, ready to show it to whomever opened up. A well-built middle-aged man with little hair left on his head looked me up and down, poked his head around the jamb to see up and down the corridor, then opened the door wider to let me in.
“Who’s co-ordinating operations here?” I asked as he shut the door behind me.
He turned around and went over to a comfy chair in front of a stack of hardware: several TV monitors connected to VHS video recorders and a few dozen reel-to-reel and cassette tape recorders. The open wrap of sandwiches on the bottom shelf wasn’t part of the standard equipment.
“Who’s asking?” he said, as I eyed his supper.
“Second Lieutenant Reim from Berlin.”
“Well, Comrade Second Lieutenant Reim from Berlin, there’s no-one co-ordinating. We all do our own thing here. Maybe there’s someone particular you want to see?”
“What do you mean, no-one’s co-ordinating? Who’s leading the Operative Einsatzstab?” I sat down next to him.
Baldy looked at me properly for the first time—he looked me in the eyes, the corner of his mouth playing with the idea of sneering. “There is no unified operational taskforce for these premises.”
“Every department for itself?”
“Every department for itself,” he confirmed, reaching for his bread.
I shook my head, this wasn’t how I’d be running the show if I were in charge—because we all know how dinner turns out when too many cooks get involved.
“Who’s here?” I asked, and started the list, just to help him get going: “Department II, Department VI? And 26, along with VIII?”
“Everyone’s here,” he said, the words coming out of his mouth along with some crumbs. “It’s a regular party.”
I sat back to think about it a bit. This place was a mess, but that could work to my advantage. If there were no Einsatzstab to report to, and the departments weren’t co-ordinating their activities, then there would be much less chance that anyone would challenge my presence.
15
Warnemünde
“Let’s see the footage from the reception desk,” I told the operative. “Start with three-quarters of an hour ago.” I knew what the machinery could do, I’d spent too much time in front of similar monitors and recorders to forget how it all worked. The image on the screen, a capture from the front desk, was recorded onto two VHS tapes, one to keep, one for near-time replay for the times when someone from Berlin Centre turned up, asking to watch a movie.
The operative pressed stop then eject on one of the machines and took out the cassette. He pushed the new tape home, and when it had settled, pressed the record button.
He pushed the tape he’d just removed into another machine, and turned on the monitor. As it warmed up, the operative rewound the tape. The picture—static and rain—became clearer, and by juggling with the play and rewind buttons, he found the time stamp I’d asked for.
I leaned over and pressed the FF button, watching as the recording sped up. A bellhop arrived, twitched his way across the screen, pushing a trolley with two suitcases. The TV was black and white, but I could guess the colour of the luggage.
I took my finger off fast-forward and the picture stabilised, pausing before running on at normal speed. Merkur came into view, stopping at the front desk, his back to the camera. He stood there, unbuttoning his coat, taking his black felt hat off and running a hand over his grey hair. The receptionist spoke to him while looking down to check something beneath the counter.
“Any sound?” I asked.
“Only for special occasions,” replied the comrade. “Did you put a request in for sound?” He knew I hadn’t. If I had, there’d have been a chit on the desk.
I watched Merkur’s elbow move back and forth as he filled in the registration form and passed it to the receptionist. A short delay as she made a few notes and stood up to reach the room key from the hooks behind her. Merkur looked around the lobby, finally focussing on the short corridor that led off to the side.
“I want to see the registration details for that man,” I said, watching as Merkur walked out of shot, heading for the lifts.
16
Warnemünde
The leader of the reception brigade wasn’t surprised by my sudden appearance—no doubt members of the Firm trotted in and out of his office all day. It may have helped that I remained respectful and polite—someone in as public a position as his, in a high-profile, Western-facing hotel like this, would have plenty of vitamin C—Connections—to cadre levels in the Party. Perhaps in my Firm, too.
“Who are you looking for, Comrade?” he asked, adjusting his glasses with one hand while picking up a pencil with the other.
“Seiffert, Werner. He checked in,” I looked at my watch, “fifty-two minutes ago.”
The brigadier checked his own watch, scribbled a note then pushed his glasses to the top of his head. Without a word, he left the office.
It didn’t take him long, not long enough to allow me even a brief glance around his office—thirty seconds at the outside. But when he returned, I was standing where he’d left me, hands behind my back, waiting patiently.
“Fourteenth floor,” said the brigadier, moving a small Deutsch-Sowjetische Freundschaft desk flag aside and slapping a thin bundle of registration cards on the desk.
I sat in the visitor’s seat and shuffled through the documents. Everything tallied with the details provided on Merkur’s visa application, nothing out of place. No slip-ups, no changes. The only new piece of information was his room number at the hotel.
“Thank you, comrade.” I told him. “I shall be sure to report your co-operation.”
There was no reply, he was too busy repositioning the flag.
The fourteenth floor corridor was just the same as the ones I’d already seen, except the doors here were closer together—singles and doubles rather than suites.
The deep carpet muffled my footsteps as I paced along, which is possibly why the maid further along the corridor didn’t notice me as she let herself into one of the rooms, folded sheets and towels draped over her left arm. By the time I reached her, she was inside the room, the door slightly ajar. I idly checked the number as I went past, then stopped and backed up.
This was Merkur’s room. And if Merkur had arrived less than an hour ago then he wouldn’t be needing his room tidied, his towels changed or his bed making.
I pushed the door slowly, peering around to see whether Merkur was in residence, or whether the maid was alone.
The room was long, angled at the far end so that the window and the balcony had a view of the beach. The place was tidy, the bed was made, and Merkur wasn’t present. But the maid was zipping open one of his suitcases.
“Is this part of the Neptun’s famous room service?” I enquired, using a quiet bu
t hard voice.
The maid spun round, one hand over her heart, her eyebrows pulled high in shock, so high that I was concerned for the safety of her eyeballs.
I’d walked into the room unprepared, and now I had to decide who I was. A random guest walking along the corridor? No good—no authority to act. I had a couple of IDs with me, the genuine one from the Ministry in my inside pocket and, in the left coat pocket, my favourite legend, the disc that showed me to be a detective with the Kripo.
But I wasn’t dealing with a simple case of attempted pilfering—the maid would have chosen a better time to go through Merkur’s belongings, right at the end of the guest’s stay, when he’d have less time to notice and report any missing items.
Which meant she had other reasons to take a look at Merkur’s luggage, and those reasons were probably very similar to my own. I decided it was the inside pocket I needed—I pulled out the Ministry clapperboard and gave her the briefest flash of my mugshot.
“Where’s the occupant of this room?” I demanded.
The maid let go of her heart, and her brilliant blue eyes bounced back to their normal shape. She looked around nervously, as if seeking an exit. Not convinced by her reaction, I took a step forward and leaned over her.
“He’s gone to the restaurant complex over the road.” Her voice was steadier than I’d expected, but she swapped around some of her vowels, stretching others longer than you’d think a word could take, and her consonants were worn down by the harsh wind that blows off the Baltic. I was dealing with another Fischkopp—I had to concentrate a little to understand what she was saying.
I reached behind me and pushed the door to. Merkur would be away for a while if he’d gone for a meal in one of the speciality restaurants attached to the hotel. If the service was anything like in the rest of the Republic, he’d be there for at least half an hour before anyone got round to asking if he was waiting to be seated.
I turned my attention back to the maid. She’d composed herself, was standing and facing me, one hand on the still-closed suitcase, the fingers of the other hand fiddling with the clips that held her blonde hair in the neat braid gathered around her head.
“What’s the purpose of your presence in this room?” I asked, still keeping my voice low, not letting up on the hard edge.
She looked sideways and down, her eyes resting for a moment on the suitcase.
“You know who I am,” I said, tapping my closed clapperboard against my knuckles. “So tell me what you’re doing here.”
“I’m …” another glance down to the suitcase, “I’m required to catalogue his possessions.”
It was only then that I noticed the bulge in the pocket of her pinny. I stepped forward and reached in, ignoring her yelp of protest. It was a miniature camera, a Minox 35. Nice piece of kit, made in the West, but well-liked and widely used by the organs of various socialist states, not least because of its discreet size. This wasn’t a maid I was dealing with, at least she wasn’t just a maid.
“You’re an IM?” I asked, losing some of the hardness.
“I’m an informant,” she agreed, relieved at finally coming clean. Her shoulders dropped a centimetre or two and she gave me a nervous smile.
I’m a sucker for a nice smile, particularly when it’s in the middle of a pretty face. But this was business, and at that time I still had it in me to remain professional.
Officially, I shouldn’t be talking to an IM who was being run by another officer—if you want to use an established informant, you go through their handling officer. But here we were, in this hotel room, and both of us wanted to know whether Merkur had anything interesting in his suitcases.
“Who’s your handler?”
She hesitated, her right hand rising again to the clips that held her fancy hairstyle in place. Her eyes dropped to the suitcase, then came up again to meet mine. “Oberleutnant Mewitz.”
“OK, check the luggage, take your photos.” I handed back the camera, and she gave me another of her smiles in return. “But I’m staying here. We can finish this conversation once you’re done.”
The maid got to work, and I stood behind her, careful to make sure there were no additions or subtractions to Merkur’s belongings.
“When does your shift end?” I asked once she’d finished her art homework. There had been nothing of interest in the cases, just what you’d expect a Western tourist to take on holiday.
She took her time answering, busying herself with replacing the items in the suitcases. It was a neat job—quick, efficient and exact. Couldn’t have done it better myself.
She zipped up the suitcase, placed it on the floor next to the others and only then did she turn around. Behind her, through the window, I could see the twinkling lanterns along the harbour, and off in the distance, the glare of the arc-lamps at the International Port. But, closer to hand, her eyes also shone bright. She’d lost her nervousness, was almost enjoying the situation.
“Eleven o’clock,” she said as she pushed past me. “I’ll meet you down at the harbour—there’s a bar near the end, by the lighthouse—Fischerklause.”
I turned, wondering whether to grab her arm before she got the door open, but decided to let her go. She’d identified herself as an informant and had proposed the meet—sometimes, even in this line of work, you have to trust a little.
She left the room, and I followed, pulling the door shut as I went. By the time it snicked home, she had disappeared around the end of the corridor.
17
Warnemünde
I left the hotel and went in search of my accommodation. The office had booked a room for me somewhere in the west end of Warnemünde, and after wandering around in the sleet and ice for about twenty minutes, I was glad to reach the half-derelict house of my host.
“Come in out of the storm, come in now, leave the storm outside,” said the old dear as she levered open the warped door.
She ushered me into the narrow porch and supervised the removal of my dripping coat and sodden boots. A stout tiled stove pumped heat into a parlour crowded with heavy pre-war furniture, every available surface dripping with lace: table cloths, doilies, net curtains, framed samplers. Even the lampshades boasted frothy fringes. Taking the award for most unsurprising prop, a lace-making pillow rested on the filet lace antimacassar of an overstuffed chair arm.
“The comrades from the capital said you’d be coming,” she chirped. And with those words, the reverence with which she’d said comrades, I knew I was dealing with a veteran of the party, possibly even an officially recognised Victim Of Fascism, a status given to the survivors of the fight against the Nazis—most of whom had seen the insides of the camps during the Hitler time.
“I’ll be going out again later,” I warned the old biddy, but she chose not to hear.
“A bite to eat, young man?” She was already bustling off, heading for a narrow doorway, presumably the kitchen.
I let her go, fine by me if she wanted to make me dinner. Even if I’d stayed in the centre of Warnemünde, I wouldn’t have had much chance of finding anything better than a broiler chicken or a Bockwurst with a dry bread roll, so why not get fed in the warmth of the lace museum?
Appropriately enough, dinner turned out to be Tote Oma: mashed spicy blood-sausage which the grandma served up with warm sauerkraut and boiled potatoes. It slid down nicely with a bottle of Rostocker Hafenbräu, and with a full stomach and a second bottle in the hand, I was mellow enough to tolerate the old lady’s fussing a little longer. But when I saw her reach for the photo album, I scrambled for my boots, still drying on top of the tiled stove. I’d had enough nostalgia for one evening.
“You can’t go out again, it’s foul weather-” she wailed, but I was already in the porch, pulling on my damp winter coat.
18
Warnemünde
A whole evening stretched before me—far too much time until the meeting with the maid at the Fischerklause—so I headed to the Neptun.
I stuck to the shel
tered back streets, but whenever I crossed a road that led down to the sea, hard snow swept into my face, making me splutter.
I found the entrance to the Diskothek at the back of the hotel—it didn’t require much in the way of detective work, a line of citizens were braving the weather, waiting patiently to be allowed entry.
I headed for the front of the queue, discreetly flashed my tin, the brass disc that showed me to be a detective of the Volkspolizei, and the doorman waved me into the warmth.
Ignoring the queue for the cloakroom, I kept my coat on and went through the double doors into the disco. A battery of coloured lights swept over the large room, swiftly followed by a second sweep. It was the biggest lighting rig I’d seen outside an air-defence battalion. The noise was impressive, too. A New German Wave song was playing, some tripe from the West, but the citizens were singing along—they knew every word.
“Hit des Jahres 1983 …” breathed the DJ into his microphone as the song faded out. “Codo … düse im Sauseschritt.” He paused again, sliding up the volume of the track for a moment as if he fancied a job with Radio DT64. “And now-” but his announcement was drowned by the whoops and cheers that greeted a fast, simple beat: New Order, Blue Monday.
As the synthesisers kicked in, struggling against the inane hammering of the drum machine, I shoved my way through the dancers. Some rowdy had the nerve to shove back, but I was here on other business so made do with a sharp chop to his kidneys. It was enough, I got the space I needed to reach the bar.
I turned around, leaned against the bar and surveyed the dance floor. It wasn’t just young people here, plenty of workers in their best years were trying to keep up. Not too many Westerners though: a pocket further down the bar, a few more in the corner. As I watched the second group, I became aware of a tall fellow with a head of white hair. It wasn’t just his age that made him stick out like a painted dog, it was the fact that he wasn’t dancing, just standing in the middle while others bopped around him.
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