Baltic Approach

by Max Hertzberg

  “Furthermore, there are no operationally relevant indications that source Bruno, when still alive, had operational contact with the operative working in the operational area under the name Gisela Bauer,” I continued, internally wincing every time I said the O-word, not for the first time wishing our Ministry wasn’t so obsessed with labelling every possible activity as being operational. “Consequently we can exclude the possibility that Source Bruno had awareness of any operationally significant information regarding the identity of Comrade Bauer.”

  “Comrade Unterleutnant, the committee would be thankful if you would confine your report to operationally relevant information and evidence gained during your operational activities in District Rostock.”

  They wanted facts: what did I do, who did I see, what did they do and say? There was zero interest in my appraisal of Merkur, my assessment of his training and objectives, whether or not he was an unreliable witness and what irregularities there may be in his legend.

  So I gave them what they wanted, and remained at attention while they didn’t ask their follow-up questions.

  When it was clear that my verbal report had provoked neither interest nor reaction, Major Kühn dismissed me. “Keep yourself available, Comrade Second Lieutenant.”

  It was a polite way of saying I wasn’t going home that night—but good manners are no substitute for a bed. Not that I’d have slept much under my own blankets, but at least they’d have been my blankets.

  I took myself to Operational Technical Sector. As soon as I’d arrived back in Berlin last night, I’d handed them the film canister that Anna had given me. I wasn’t expecting anything much from the photographs, but they’d be ready by now, and going to fetch them was just one way to delay writing my report.

  The photographs weren’t waiting at the secretariat, but a message was.

  “The technician wishes to speak to you,” the secretary informed me, already lifting the phone and pressing buttons.

  “This film, domestic manufacture, brand: ORWO,” said the techie once I’d found his lair, a narrow store-room equipped with red lights, white lights, washing lines, bottles of chemicals, trays and mechanical bits and bobs I couldn’t begin to identify. “But this film has been exposed.”

  He stood in front of me, wringing his skeletal hands, bushy moustache and sideburns moving as he chewed something, possibly his tongue.

  I didn’t follow for a moment—of course the film had been exposed, that’s why I’d wanted it processed. Then the Groschen dropped. “You mean daylight?”

  “Deliberately, I’d say. Normally you can salvage an image or two from the beginning of the roll, particularly where later frames have wrapped around and protected them from accidental exposure. But this has been completely pulled out under sunlight or other bright light then wound back into the canister.”

  “Fingerprints?”

  The techie shook his head, gestured at the baths of chemicals behind him. “The film has been through a dilute acid solution, then washed. Good luck getting prints off that.”

  31

  Berlin Lichtenberg

  I took the envelope of empty negatives back to my office and sat down at the typewriter. I fed a sheet of paper in, typed my personal code in the top right-hand corner and pushed the carriage back a few times. Then:

  Zentraler Operativer Vorgang BRUNO

  Operativer Teilvorgang MERKUR

  Ermittlungsbericht

  That’s as far as I got. I picked up the envelope with the negatives, held one up to the light. As blank as you’d expect, nothing in the frame.

  Deliberate, the technician had said.

  I lifted the phone and dialled the operator.

  “Hotel Neptun in Warnemünde, Cadre Department,” I told her, and waited while she looked up the number and connected me.

  Two hundred kilometres to the north, an extension rang.

  “Kaderabteilung, Wiersinski am Apparat.”

  “Obermeister Teichert, K in Berlin,” I told him. If Wiersinski felt the need to check, the Berlin Kriminalpolizei would be happy to confirm the existence of a senior sergeant named Teichert, unfortunately not at his desk at that precise moment. “Do you have a Weber Anna on your housekeeping staff?”

  Wiersinski grunted. There was a thud as he laid the phone on the desk, then the rustle of papers. Another clunk as he picked the receiver up.

  “When did you say she worked here?” he asked.

  “Right now. She worked the late shift last Tuesday.”

  Another rustle of papers. “No, sorry, Comrade Obermeister, no-one of that name.”

  I put the phone back on its cradle and leaned back in my chair. No Anna Weber, room maid at the Hotel Neptun.

  In my safe was a phone directory for all official Ministry offices, I checked then dialled the central number for the MfS District Administration in Rostock.

  “Second Lieutenant Reim, ZAIG in Berlin. Put me through to First Lieutenant Mewitz.”

  “Which department?”

  “You tell me.”

  A sigh transmitted down the line, followed by the creaking of a wooden chair, drawers sliding open and being pushed shut. Words exchanged in the background, then the phone was lifted again.

  “No-one of that name here.”

  “What about the county office?”

  “As I said, no Mewitz here.”

  So that was the news: Oberleutnant Mewitz didn’t exist—which made him the perfect handler for the equally non-existent informer Anna Weber. But how to make that fit the Merkur case?

  Until now, I may, just about, have been prepared to accept that Merkur was a harmless old man, too clever for his own good, but merely looking for meaning in his son’s death. The kind of asset best sent home and forgotten about.

  But now I’d established the non-existence of both Weber and Mewitz, I had more questions—too many questions to allow Merkur to slip over the border back to the West.

  32

  Berlin Lichtenberg

  “What did Merkur suggest he could offer in the service of Socialism?” asked Major Kühn later that evening.

  “Comrade Major, the subject emphasised that his co-operation is conditional on access to information regarding Source Bruno’s death. Providing he is given such access, Merkur is willing to exploit his position as mid-level official in Osnabrück postal sorting office. He indicated awareness of the presence of IMs in the Bundespost who currently work to ensure packages carried within West Germany are redirected to the territory of the GDR. He further indicated willingness to facilitate the activities of any such IMs who may be within his area of organisational responsibility.”

  Kühn steepled his fingers and thought about the offer. The parcel operation run by Department M was something nobody knew about, and at the same time, something everyone knew about—the parcels sent from the West to addresses in the GDR and searched before they reached their destination, the tapes, money, medicines that were removed—we’d all seen the plunder. I’d even heard rumours that the brass had access to a warehouse to the east of Berlin where they could take their pick of the goods.

  But until Merkur mentioned it, I hadn’t heard anything about parcels posted and addressed within West Germany being deliberately diverted over the border by agents in the West German Post Office. Presumably they ended up in the same warehouse in the Freienbrink complex.

  “Another thing, Comrade Heym, we have received several communications from the District Administration in Rostock, not to mention the Cadre Manager at Hotel Neptun.”

  I stiffened. It was clear what was coming next—complaints of flattened toes from the very people whose toes I’d been told to avoid. “Jawohl, Genosse Major.”

  “The interdepartmental committee has reached a decision, Comrade Second Lieutenant.” Instead of bollocking me, Kühn changed the subject—was he sparing me the embarrassment, or was he just realistic enough to realize there’ll always be a little sawdust when you plane a plank? “Secondary Operational Procedure
Merkur has ended.” Kühn slid a couple of forms from the file in front of him and passed them over. “Merkur’s visa has been revoked, and you are to travel overnight to Rostock and escort the subject to the border.”

  “Permission to speak, Comrade Major?”

  “The committee has made its decision, take the lieutenant from Rostock with you,” he shuffled his papers again, looking for the name. “Second Lieutenant Lütten, take him. I want a written investigation report on Merkur before you leave this evening, and the final report on the secondary operation on the day of your return.”

  When a superior won’t let you speak, you hold your clapper and bite the sour apple, no matter how much he needs to hear new information about exposed rolls of film, non-existent chambermaids and fictitious handlers.

  “Jawohl, Genosse Major.”

  33

  Rostock

  The train arrived at Rostock half an hour late, but still in the wee hours of the morning. It was the darkest and quietest time of the day, night workers only half-way though their shift and everyone else abed. All except for Lütten, his glowing cigarette visible in the shadow of the shuttered ticket office.

  We stood facing each other while the other passengers filtered into the night. I had my bag in one hand, the other was in my pocket. Lütten sipped placidly on his cigarette and stared past me, as if he were still waiting for me to arrive.

  “Are you here to give me a lift?” I asked. I was as proud as the next man, but it was too late and too cold for this kind of game.

  Lütten dropped his cigarette, putting his foot on it as he pivoted around to the main entrance. I followed him.

  More snow had fallen since I’d left the night before. It was yet to be cleared and troughs stamped through the drifts showed the most popular routes. We took the path to the right where a familiar Wartburg stood, its engine ticking over, puffing smoke like an addict.

  Lütten held the back door open and I climbed in, dragging my bag after me. I was surprised when he walked around the car and got in next to me.

  “We’ve got a few hours, Merkur’s train leaves just after nine. I’ve sorted out a bed for you,” he said, looking the other way.

  “I want to hear about the plan before I turn in.”

  “We knock on his door at six o’clock, watch him pack, accompany him downstairs and put him in the car.”

  “And what are you going to do until his train leaves?” I demanded. “You plan to sit in the car with him for two and a half hours?”

  We’d left the station now, were driving towards Warnemünde. The driver showed no signs of listening, his eyes staying on the road and the wing mirrors.

  “That’s not what we’re going to do,” I told Lütten. “The subject arrives for breakfast between a quarter to and five to eight—so we fetch him at twenty to eight. I want a man at either end of the corridor and two knocking at his door. In addition, there’s to be two men on each entrance of the hotel, starting immediately. Got that?”

  Lütten finally turned around to face me. Maybe he was bored with the view outside.

  “And I want good men knocking on that door,” I continued. “There’s to be no fuss. Any complaints from the Neptun, I’ll point them in your direction. Now get on the radio—sort out the personnel, then take me to my bed.”

  34

  Warnemünde

  I waited in the back of the Wartburg while they hauled Merkur out. They were as discreet as they could be under the circumstances: Lütten directing operations, a local heavyweight bringing up the rear, carrying both of Merkur’s leather suitcases in one hand. Lütten stopped at the door, his arm extended as graciously as a gentleman considering how best to drape his cape over a puddle.

  They took the downstairs entrance, the one used for the Daddeldu disco: crowded in the evening, it should have been empty at breakfast time. Yet a member of staff was wiping down the cloakroom counter—he knew exactly what was going on and suddenly found his task fascinating, bending over the desk so far his eyeballs almost touched the wood he was polishing. A couple of Westerners who had no business being there weren’t so reserved. They stood around at the foot of the stairs, watching as the procession passed through, at least until the hotel management turned up and toadied them upstairs to the breakfast room.

  Lütten ushered Merkur into the back seat of the car, and the Wartburg sank on its suspension as the big goon clambered into the front passenger seat. Lütten got behind the wheel and we pulled out of the hotel car park, a Rocar minibus with the rest of Lütten’s men tucked in tight behind us.

  “Can you tell me where you’re taking me?” asked Merkur. His voice was as steady as the day he and I had chatted by the sea at Heiligendamm.

  “I’m afraid there’s been an administrative error regarding your visa, Herr Seiffert. Unfortunately you’ll have to cut short your visit to the German Democratic Republic. As an indication of our regret at this unfortunate situation, we’re giving you a lift to the station where you’ll be able to catch the train back to Osnabrück.”

  “How kind,” murmured Merkur, watching the lights of Warnemünde through the car windows.

  The Inter-zonal train came in from Stralsund, a rake of West German Bundesbahn carriages hauled by a thrumming Ludmilla diesel. We stood at the far end of the platform at Rostock main station, Merkur and I together, Lütten and his goons a few paces away, giving us some privacy. Not that I needed privacy—I had questions for Merkur, but not out here in the open.

  There were passengers throughout the first carriage, so I sent Lütten along to clear out a compartment in the middle. Once that was done, I heaved Merkur’s suitcases into the luggage racks and invited him to sit next to the window.

  “You and one man stay at the end of the carriage, dismiss the others” I ordered Lütten as I slid the compartment door shut and locked it with a square railway key. I drew the curtains on the corridor side and sat down in the seat next to the door.

  Merkur was looking out of the window, watching the snow-capped platforms jerk away as the train gathered speed. We rattled over points, past the sparse lights of a marshalling yard and were soon free of the town. The snow was thicker here, covering sheds and skeletal vegetable plots of endless allotment gardens. After that: open fields, bare trees and lifeless villages. Merkur turned away from the grey dawn unrolling outside the window.

  “I suppose I was naive to think this might end any other way,” he said. I didn’t know whether he was talking to himself or to me.

  I pulled my bag off the luggage rack and fetched a book out: a red bound hardback that looked and felt impressive: Chromow’s biography of Felix Edmundovich Dzerzhinski, hero of the Russian Revolution and forefather of all Chekists. It wasn’t something I wanted to read, it was the kind of tome you keep on your bookshelves for those occasions colleagues drop by to examine your collection. I’d just brought it along to send a message.

  After I’d looked at the first line of a randomly chosen page for a few minutes without taking anything in, Merkur broke the silence again.

  “How did this …” he waggled his fingers and looked upwards for inspiration, “these administrative errors arise? Last time I looked, my visa was perfectly in order.”

  I closed the book, but kept a finger in the page, just in case he was paying attention.

  “You’re here on a tourist visa, yet I’m sure you’ll admit you’ve hardly been a model tourist.”

  “Ah yes. But I did enjoy my walks along the coast. Does that not count for something?”

  I opened my book again, but paused. My orders were to escort Merkur out of the country, file the obligatory report and then forget any of this had ever happened. But I had questions, and it didn’t take a trained interrogator from Main Department IX to notice that Merkur was feeling talkative.

  “About those walks you took. You always seemed to come back alone—not a bad trick.”

  Merkur allowed a smile to flit across his features.

  “How did you evade you
r tail?” I persisted.

  “Dogs.”

  Again with the dogs. I let his answer echo around the compartment for a moment or two, the interval timed by wheels drumming over frozen track joints.

  “Dogs? We talked about dogs last time we met.”

  “Yes. You see, dogs are wonderful things. When a postman comes to deliver a letter, to the dog’s mind he is invading their territory. The dog reacts. The dog has to react, has to see off what he sees as a threat to his pack.”

  More clacking of wheels while Merkur chose how and when to get to the point. He was enjoying all this talk about dogs, making me wait.

  “I was a postman for more years than I can remember. Every day, whatever the weather, carrying letters and parcels. Some dogs aren’t sophisticated—for them, it’s all about strength. Sharp teeth, big muscles. Other dogs you can do a deal with. Biscuits and treats, a scratch behind the ears. I told you I don’t like terriers, didn’t I? They’re the worst ones, not just terriers—all the little ones. They haven’t got the strength, but they still have their pride, which is why they’re not interested in a deal. They ambush you, really, they do. Spend all day working out where best to hide, what the best angle of attack is and then they wait for the postman to come down the garden path so they can ambush him from behind.”

  He pulled a silver case of cigarettes from his jacket pocket, opened it up and slid one out before pointing the case in my direction. I helped myself, Merkur lit me up with an American Zippo lighter.

  “Over the years, you get used to keeping an eye out for them. Under bushes, around corners, in doorways, behind cars. You learn to spot the hiding places first, and only then do you look for the dog.” Merkur drew on his cigarette, perhaps marshalling his thoughts, straightening up his words, arranging the punch line. “When a postman is on a dog’s territory, it doesn’t just see him the way a human does, the dog hears the postman, it smells him. Seeing the hiding place can be easy, but shaking off a dog without losing the cuffs of your trousers is always the hard part. Compared to dogs, humans like your colleagues are easy to shake.”