Baltic Approach

by Max Hertzberg

  “When? After his visit to Beeskow, when he returned to Bonn?”

  “Before that. It was when we were still preparing our own plans. We thought about asking her if she could help, but in the end we decided a direct approach to Berlin would work better.”

  “Did you at any point have operational contact with Codename Sanderling?”

  “Not me, I never met her. But Arnold did, several times.” Another shake of the head. “Before he came over to the East.”

  “You told me yesterday that Sanderling’s group went into the net—how do you know that?”

  “I was informed, as a matter of courtesy, after the fact … Some of her group were picked up in Bonn, in an empty shop opposite Arnold’s flat, another couple were arrested at a safe house in Cologne.”

  “But you know that Sanderling escaped, that she returned to the GDR?”

  “Yes, she had someone with her—a man. That’s all they told me.”

  He knew more, although perhaps he wasn’t even aware of it, or he thought it not worth mentioning. Given time and careful questioning, we’d get to that information. But right now, I wanted to find out what Bruno and Sanderling had talked about.

  But before I went into that, there was something else I needed to ask—I just wasn’t sure what it was. A nagging voice—that of Major Renn, my old tutor at the Ministry’s high school in Golm—he was in my head, eyebrows wiggling as if with a life of their own, telling me I’d missed something.

  I mentally reviewed Merkur’s last few answers, trying to localise whatever it was that Renn was badgering me about. Then I had it: Merkur had twice stated that Bruno and Sanderling were in contact before he came East to defect—yet she herself had told me she’d had no operational contact with Bruno. She’d claimed her activities had been limited to observation only.

  “Herr Doktor Portz, you said that Arnold Seiffert and codename Sanderling were in contact—how did that contact come about?”

  “That’s not the question you should be asking.”

  I’d like to see him pull that kind of trick on the interrogators from IX—they know how to deal with wise guys like him. Speaking from personal experience, sleep deprivation and hunger was a decent enough cure for that particular kind of sickness, as well as many others. But I didn’t have enough time, so I played along.

  “What should I be asking?”

  “Don’t you find it interesting how they knew exactly where to find Sanderling’s team? The observation team with eyes on Seiffert, the safe house in Cologne. It all happened conveniently quickly.”

  “I’m sure you’ll tell me why.”

  “We had information, from Berlin. Your half of Berlin. Someone in your firm told us about Arnold’s defection, and about the team you had in Cologne and Bonn.”

  I turned to look out of the window, hiding my features again, just in case he was good at reading faces. This was old news, I knew there had been a mole in HA II, counter intelligence, and I’d dealt with the situation. But it sounded like Merkur could be talking about a different mole.

  “What can you tell me about this informant?” I asked, turning back to the room.

  Merkur shrugged, his eyes on my cigarette again. I gave him the packet and he got his Zippo out. He lit up, inhaled, held the smoke in his lungs, then let it go.

  “Someone in foreign intelligence.”

  “When you say foreign intelligence, you mean HV A? Or do you mean the counter intelligence department, HA II?”

  “I know the difference between foreign intelligence and counter intelligence.” There was iron in his voice, he didn’t like his expertise being questioned.

  There was a whole catalogue of questions I wanted to ask: how did Merkur know which department his alleged mole was in? Was he aware of any characteristics which might help identify the mole: age, length of service, classification levels of the material provided?

  But before I could put any of this to him, there was a knock. I left the windowsill and opened the door. It was Lütten. He didn’t look very happy.

  “Not a good time,” I told him, about to shut the door again. But instead, I took another look at his face and decided to join him in the corridor.

  “You need to know about this,” Lütten said, moving away from the door. “Come downstairs.”

  I followed him down. Irritated, but hopeful he’d brought news about the elusive chambermaid, Anna Weber.

  It was only when we reached the first floor that I spotted the shadows in the doorways. They sidled out, cutting me off from the stairs back up to Merkur.

  “Sorry, Reim, new orders.” Lütten still looked troubled, genuinely so.

  I could do nothing but watch as two operatives went upstairs and into Merkur’s bedroom. Another one, Lütten’s favourite heavyweight, remained at my elbow.

  “You’re to return to Berlin immediately, Prager will take you.”

  45

  Bad Doberan

  “I need my bag,” I told Prager. He wasn’t about to let me past, but a look from Lütten and he stepped out of the way.

  I went into the kitchen, and while I was there, I poured myself a glass of water from the tap. When I turned around, Lütten was behind me, like a dachshund with sad eyes.

  “Any news about the Weber woman?” I whispered before he could start apologising again.

  “We’ve got a Westerner fitting her description, registered as visiting Frau Jakopaschk, number 11 on the Lichtenhagen pedestrian zone—near where we saw her yesterday.”

  I patted his shoulder as I picked up my bag and passed him. I probably wouldn’t be able to use the information he’d just given me, she’d be long gone by the time I had a chance to look her up.

  “Prager will take you to the county office—you’re to contact Berlin before you set off.”

  I nodded, put my coat on and threw a last look around the hall. Lütten was in the kitchen doorway, Prager was by the passageway that led to the garage. No sight or sound of the goons who had gone up the stairs, they were probably waiting for me to clear the safe house before they brought Merkur downstairs.

  “What’s going to happen to the subject?” I asked, nodding upwards.

  “Back to Herrnburg. This time he’s to leave the country.”

  “Better twice than not at all.” A weak smile from Lütten, no reaction from Prager.

  I ducked through the doorway into the garage and folded myself into the passenger seat of the Moskvitch, bag on my lap. Prager got behind the wheel and we drove out of the garage, past a blue Shiguli and a sand-coloured Wartburg parked on the drive, then onto the cobbled roadway and up to the junction with the main road.

  We slowed down as we came to the level crossing where the narrow gauge railway runs through the town—a double hoot from the Molli steam train warned us to give way.

  It came from the left, coal bunker first, pulling the same mixed rake of carriages I’d travelled on when I’d followed Merkur to Heiligendamm a few days before. Another whistle as it came up to the road, steam hissing from valves, brown smoke gusting from the funnel. I watched the locomotive rattle over the road crossing, trailing a dark red luggage van and three passenger carriages.

  As the luggage van cleared the junction, I shoved my bag at Prager, pushed open the car door and ran toward the train, hooking the grab rail and pulling myself up the steps onto the platform at the rear end of the first passenger carriage.

  I heard Prager shout, but didn’t turn to see how far behind he was. He had strength, but I was hoping his bulk would slow him down.

  Slamming open the door to the carriage, I ran up the aisle, the shuddering train throwing me against seats and outraged babushkas. Out onto the front platform, finally risking a look back. The Moskvitch was still on the main road, both front doors open, no sign of the goon—he wasn’t running alongside the train, he must have jumped aboard. Crossing the platform, I leaned out to see what was coming up: we were almost into the town centre, slowing down as the street tapered. A Dacia pulled u
p at the curb to give the train enough space to sidle by, and as we pulled past, I jumped down. Instead of the efficient parachutist’s roll that I’d intended, my feet hit a frozen puddle and my right leg snapped forwards. As I went down, my left leg scissored backwards—I swung myself about, dragging my left leg around before it had a chance to introduce itself to the train’s wheels. I’d hurt myself, but ignoring the pain, I crawled around the parked car until I was lying along the pavement, out of sight.

  I lay in the slush, the soot and the brown coal dust, listening to the wheezing, clattering carriages as they straggled along the tracks, just waiting for Prager to find me, pick me up and drag me back to the Moskvitch.

  A sharp puff of grey exhaust smoke in my face told me the Dacia was about to drive off, so I propped myself on my knees and limped into the recessed doorway of a shop. The train’s bell was clanging, reverberating off the buildings on either side of the narrow street, dimming and deepening as it pulled further away, hopefully taking Prager with it.

  I released the air caught up in my lungs, willing adrenaline to drain away, but not too much, I might still need it. I prodded my hip and my knee, still hurting from yesterday’s chase and kneaded the back of my ankle, a new injury. All were sore, but the ankle hadn’t yet begun to stiffen—I was still mobile.

  Another cautious peek around the edge of the doorway to check what was happening down the street. The Moskvitch stood abandoned at the junction—a cop had already turned up, was leaning in, checking the interior. He stood up again, closed both doors and went to talk to the driver of the first car in the queue caught behind the stationary Moskvitch.

  The cop was occupied, he wouldn’t take any notice of a limping pedestrian a hundred metres down the road, this was a good enough time to leave my cover, but a shout sent me back into the recesses.

  I pressed myself into the corner as the heavy crunch of rapid footsteps approached. Prager went past on the opposite pavement, looking neither right nor left, focussed on the cop and the Moskvitch.

  Another peek around the corner, the policeman had marshalled a couple of drivers and was directing their efforts to push the car to the side of the road.

  “Hey!” shouted Prager again, trying to attract the cop’s attention. A good time for me to move.

  A narrow lane opened out a few metres further down the other side of the road and I headed for it, hoping Prager would be interested only in recovering his car. I risked a look over my shoulder as I crossed the street, the cop and Prager were arguing, the big man was trying to open the driver’s door, but the policeman was standing in the way, being difficult.

  I’d reached the curb on the far side when my luck broke.

  “Oy!” This time, Prager’s shouts were for me.

  Wincing, I pushed my legs into speeding up, I had a good head start, if I could ignore the various pains then I might still keep my advantage. I reached the entrance to the lane and swung around the corner, hoping nobody was coming the other way.

  “Reim!” It was Prager again, but I wasn’t in the mood to stop and see what he wanted, so I scurried along, watching for ice and cracks in the flags. Further on, this lane opened into the next road, slightly uphill, past low cottages, some in good shape, others falling apart, spewing rubble onto ice-slick pavements. Another junction, straight on or off to the left? I took the left—it curved around, I’d be out of sight once I hit the bend. The slope was steeper here, the pains in my leg were joined by keen daggers of cold air slashing my lungs with every breath I took. Over my panting, I couldn’t hear Prager, neither his shouts nor his heavy footsteps.

  A crossroads—I took the road that led further up the hill, just because Prager might expect me to take the downhill option. Up ahead, on a bend, the slope evened out—if I got that far I’d slow a little, catch my breath—with all these turn-offs, I might just have shaken off the goon.

  I kept my eyes on that goal, ignoring the twitching net curtains in the houses I passed, working up that hill, ears stiff from listening for the drumming of footsteps behind me, or worse, the growl of the Moskvitch engine.

  I got to a bend, pressed myself flat against the wall and stopped, half-turning, looking back the way I’d come. Still no sign of any pursuit, so I gave myself a few seconds, leaning over, hands on my thighs, breathing in the frigid air.

  My lungs eased a little—they still burned from the cold, but were ready for the next round. A final check backwards, and there he was, at the last junction, looking around, trying to decide which way to go. I straightened up, pushed myself off the wall and started to run.

  46

  Bad Doberan

  By moving so suddenly, I’d alerted Prager to my presence—he gave another shout, but I was already around the bend, out of sight.

  Finally, a downhill stretch, my stride lengthening. If my feet found an icy patch I’d be down on the ground again, at Prager’s mercy. Eyes wide, scanning the cobbles and flags ahead, I counted my paces, not daring to look over my shoulder.

  At the bottom of the hill I hit a wide marketplace. To the left, another residential street, leading up an incline—cottages and small houses jostled along either side, steps and gateposts jutted out onto the pavement. Thick snow lay on the roadway, children were playing, sledging down the middle.

  I slowed as the slope steepened further, looking around, hoping for somewhere to hide, to give my lungs and my leg a break.

  Yards opened between each house, the next set of gates on my right stood open, and I darted in, leaning against the wall and bending over in an effort to get some air into my lungs. When I looked up, a little girl, perhaps eight or nine years old, was standing by the gatepost, staring at me, her mitten clutching a length of string that led to her sled.

  “This is my house.” She had a soft Mecklenburg accent, her eyes were wide with disapproval.

  “Is there a man down there? A big man? By the market?”

  The girl held the string tighter, looked down the hill then back at me. She shook her head.

  I reached into my pocket, pulled out my wallet and extracted a note, the first one I found—twenty Marks. Too much, but I didn’t have time to waste looking for anything smaller. I showed the green note to the girl, folded it up so she could see Goethe’s face and offered it to her.

  “In a moment, a man is going to come running out of that road on the right, I want you to tell him that you saw me … You saw me running that way.”

  “Towards Mollistrasse?” she asked, watching my arm point down the hill.

  “Exactly, Mollistrasse. Will you do that for me?” I held the money out.

  She looked at me, she looked down the hill towards the market, then she pushed her sledge until it was out of the road, resting against the house and trotted off down the hill, pigtails bouncing.

  I pushed the twenty Marks into a joint in the seat of the sledge, then looked down the hill again, keeping out of sight as best I could. Prager had finally turned up, was staring around the marketplace and up the street I was on. The girl was still on her way towards him, jumping over snow that had drifted up in the gutter, but as he came towards her, she stopped and waited, planting her feet wide and putting her hands on her hips.

  Prager halted, I watched as she pointed in the other direction, towards the marketplace, but ducked back behind the side of the house as Prager looked around again. I peeked out again, needing to know how he reacted, whether he believed the girl.

  The clattering whir or a two-stroke engine broke through the everyday background noises of the small town. The pitch tightening into a whine as it came closer, and a vomit-green Trabant slithered to a halt in the street next to the gateway I was standing in. A woman in the driver’s seat sat and looked at me. Her eyes moved to the right, noticing the twenty Mark note on the sledge, then, face clouded with suspicion, she opened the car door and stood in the road, leaving the engine running.

  “Who are you? What do you want?”

  I peered around the corner of the buildin
g, Prager was heading the other way, the girl still stood there, hands on hips.

  This was my moment. I ran onto the road, reaching into my pocket for my clapperboard. Thrusting the identity card in the woman’s face, I pushed her onto the pavement and got into the Trabant.

  It was pointing the wrong way, so I drove into the bank of snow on the far side of the road, wrestled the gear lever into reverse. The woman was shouting, her words unintelligible over the skirling of the engine. The tyres slithered on the thick snow, finally gained traction, slipping, biting, slipping again. Far enough. Back into first gear and off up the hill, away from Prager.

  I could see him in the mirror, he had turned, alerted by the yelling woman. Closer to, the woman was still standing in the road, her hands placed on her hips, just like her daughter.

  47

  Kröpelin

  I found my way back to the main road and pointed the Trabant west. As the car lumbered its way up to a reasonable speed, I kept one eye on the mirrors, the other on the road ahead.

  After ten minutes I had to slow down again as the road dribbled its way through the small town of Kröpelin—past the usual piebald buildings and shops closed for Sunday.

  After taking a promising-looking junction, the small houses that lined my route faded away, leaving allotments to one side, new blocks of flats on the other. Feeling this could be the place I’d finally find some luck, I entered the car park in front of the flats, looking for a vehicle that wouldn’t be on the Firm’s watch list.

  At the gable-end of the block of flats where no windows overlooked the car park, I found what I needed—a grey Wartburg with a stencil on the door proclaiming it the property of an agricultural co-operative—the kind of company car used by management. It wouldn’t be missed before the boss decided to go to work on Monday morning.

  I parked up next to it and got out of the Trabant to check the door of the Wartburg. Locked. Nothing a pocket knife couldn’t fix.

  I didn’t give my surroundings more than a once-over before I broke the lock—best thing to do in situations like this is to act like you belong. Don’t peer over your shoulder or bend down to examine the lock. There’s nothing so obvious as furtiveness.