Baltic Approach

by Max Hertzberg

  With the door cracked, I got into the Wartburg and leaned down to strip the steering column. Touch the ignition wires together, the engine firing immediately. A moment to set the heater to full, and I reversed out of the car park and drove back to the main road.

  At the junction I had a decision to make: where next?

  There was no point in going after Merkur, even if he was still at the safe house in Bad Doberan, I’d never get close enough to him to find out what else he could tell me about the mole in HV A.

  So my destination was Lichtenhagen—I was determined to take some kind of success back to Berlin, no matter how minor, and finding out what the Westerner Anna Weber was up to might make the difference between a mere demotion and cleaning the toilets until I retired.

  My route took me back through Bad Doberan, but I was no longer in the car they were looking for. Unless they’d set up a roadblock and were checking each vehicle, I’d be fine.

  Perhaps I had found my luck in Kröpelin—I rolled into Bad Doberan ten minutes later and passed through the crossroads where I’d escaped from Prager—the Moskvitch was gone, not even a white mouse traffic cop was still at the scene. Wherever they were looking for me, it wasn’t there.

  On the outskirts of Rostock, I took the arterial road north to Lichtenhagen, turning off at the same place where I’d chased Anna Weber, the day before. A little further on, I pulled into the car park that served the nearest block of flats and found a nice gap between two other stationary cars—all the better to hide the stencil on the doors. I shut the door of the Wartburg and walked away.

  Block number eleven was at the far end of the pedestrian zone. In the summer it would be a pleasant walk between young trees and fountains, but it was less fun in the middle of winter when the Baltic winds thrummed between the high buildings. No wonder I was the only person out there.

  I examined the doorbells outside number eleven, Jakopaschk, the woman who was allowing Anna Weber to stay in her flat, was the third name down on the right. Mentally rehearsing my cover, I stood for a moment, finger poised to press the bell. An old man struggled up the steps to the door, his reddened eyes rheumy, his back bent against the wind.

  “Come along in, young man,” he rasped as he aimed his key at the keyhole. His hand was far from steady, which put his aim off. On the third go, he hit the bullseye and twisted the lock.

  I pushed the door open for him, holding it while he shunted himself over the threshold.

  “Frau Jakopaschk?” I asked.

  “That meddling woman?” He directed his tired eyes upwards and shook his head. “Fourth floor.”

  I took myself off up the stairs, but waited on the half-landing, leaning over the banisters to see which way the old man went. Still shaking his head at the folly of strangers, he played catch the keyhole on a door on the first floor, and once he was safely inside, I went back down to check the name on the bell: Carlson.

  Up on the fourth floor, I had the choice of three doors, Jakopaschk was in the middle. Adjusting my legend slightly—a functionary on door-to-door enquiries—I started with the neighbour to the right. I pressed the bell and knocked loud enough for the neighbours to hear.

  No answer. Good, that saved a little time.

  Counting to twenty before turning to the middle door, I pressed the bell and held it down.

  “All right! All right, coming!” the voice within came almost immediately, as if the owner had been waiting at the spyhole. The click of a lock, and a middle-aged woman in a purple dederon housecoat opened up. Permed hair, bottle blonde, a duster in her left hand, the right still on the door latch.

  “Frau …” I made a show of peering at the bell. “Jakopaschk, is that right? My name is Sandek, from the Volkssolidarität. We’re concerned about Herr Carlson on the first floor. Would you be able to confirm the reports we’ve received regarding his continued ability to live independently?”

  Jakopaschk crossed her arms beneath her bosom and nodded meaningfully. “That old fool? Doesn’t know what’s good for him. Of course, he’s done a lot for the Party, but that’s in the past. Now he’s nothing but a danger to himself and the rest of us in the block.”

  “Would it be possible to come inside to discuss this further?”

  She mustered me from top to toe, wondering whether I could be trusted to see the inside of her flat.

  “Volkssolidarität, you say?”

  I nodded, selecting a charitable face to wear, the one I hoped was most fitting for a worker of the welfare organisation.

  “I haven’t got time for nattering.” She waved her duster around a bit.

  “Anyone else here I could talk to?”

  But Jakopaschk was already closing the door on me. I’d pushed too hard.

  Jakopaschk’s other neighbour was more accommodating. A widow with an immaculately kept flat stuffed with furniture from a previous era, she invited me in for a coffee, only too delighted to tell me all about Herr Carlson’s distinguished service to the Party during his working life at the International Port on the other side of the river, and about his current struggles to do his shopping. I finally managed to turn her naturally enquiring mind to neighbour Jakopaschk.

  “Well, I don’t like to speak out of turn, but she is an odd one,” she confided.

  A little more encouragement, and it all came out, her tone brimming with reluctant disappointment. “It’s her political standpoint. She harps on about other people, but when it comes to doing her part in the block, not to mention around Lichtenhagen …”

  “Does she live alone? Any visitors?”

  “Visitors? So many visitors! Oh, I don’t mean like that, not gentlemen visitors, leastways, not that I’ve seen … But in summer—the holidaymakers, you know? It’s not official, of course, the Travel Agency of the GDR hasn’t inspected the rooms, not to my knowledge, but it stands to reason, doesn’t it? They’d never allow her to rent out that boxroom to holidaymakers, would they? But she takes in paying guests anyway and for all I know she doesn’t register them in the housebook. Well, I wouldn’t actually know whether she does or not—she keeps the book for the whole block, you see. It’s all very well for us to have to go knocking on her door to tell her about our visitors so she can enter them in the book, but we’re not allowed to know who’s staying at her place.”

  “Anyone there at the moment?”

  “Slip of a girl. No idea what her name is, but out all hours, she is.” She lowered her voice and leaned forward. “A Westerner, the local beat policeman told me, just imagine that!”

  I gave her a shocked look, and she sat back, gratified by my response.

  “And is the Westerner there, right now?” I asked, lowering my voice too.

  “Oh I wouldn’t know a thing like that, would I? What do you think I am—a gossip?”

  48

  Rostock Lichtenhagen

  On my way out, I had a look at the back of the building. A door let onto a car park, but since Anna Weber hadn’t been in a car when I’d last seen her, I decided she may not have access to a vehicle and I should concentrate on watching the front.

  Leaving the building by the main door, I was heartened by the discovery of a pub directly opposite, and, what’s more, it was open.

  I crossed the gusty walkway, keeping my head down against the snow that whipped between the flats. I pushed at the aluminium and glass door and stepped into the warm, smokey interior of the bar.

  The tables by the front window were empty, and I chose the one furthest from the door. Draping my coat over the back of a chair, I took a second look around: the inevitable veteran clutching his nearly empty glass, and a middle-aged man behind the bar, his sideburns long enough to underpin his jowls. Neither had paid any attention to my entrance, both were watching a black and white portable television, some report on Sigmund Jähn’s 1978 trip to space on board a Soyuz rocket. We enjoyed celebrating past successes in our Republic.

  The barman finally looked over, jerking his loose chin by way of a greeting
.

  “Beer and a hot grog,” I called, then stood up and peered into the darker corners of the room. “Toilet?”

  The barman jerked his head again, towards the back, and I set off to explore. The toilets were off a short corridor: the usual cracked and leaking bowl, plastic sink with plastic taps. Further down the corridor, I found a tiny kitchen with an outside door. I pulled on the door and peered out. Another car park, the mirror of the one I’d just seen over the way.

  Pushing the door shut again, I returned to the bar and settled in to observe the block of flats opposite. I didn’t know whether Anna Weber was at home, and if not, when she might turn up—or even whether she’d still turn up. But I had a comfortable seat in a warm bar, I could think of worse places to wait.

  It was a couple of beers later before anything happened. Comrade Carlson shuffled his way down the outside steps, searched his pockets for a minute or two, then turned around and hauled himself back up to the front door. A young mother jostled a pram down to the street and headed north.

  But halfway down the third beer, a Barkas van nosed its way along the pavement. I couldn’t read the decals on the side, but I didn’t need a sign to tell me what was going on. As two workmen pulled toolboxes from the back of the van, I drained my glass and pulled on my coat. The workmen were setting up camp by the door of the flats opposite, one slowly swinging it open and shut, the other standing by, shaking his head thoughtfully.

  Repairs. On a Sunday. The Firm needed to think up some new tricks—those two weren’t out in the cold mending a hinge, they were there to intercept Anna Weber when she returned, to politely guide her round to the back door. Along the way she’d be bundled into a strategically placed vehicle.

  I stood up, having to hold on to the edge of the table for a moment while I reacquainted my bruised knee and twisted ankle with the idea of movement, then headed for the back door. I laid three one-Mark coins on the counter as I passed, and by the time I was in the corridor to the toilets, the barkeeper had scooped up the money without even looking away from the telly.

  Out of the back door, down the steps to the car park, penknife ready to crack another car door—then I spotted the dark blue Shiguli, about fifty metres away. Comrade Lütten leaned against the wing, tweed hat pulled low over his eyes, cigarette at his lips. He flicked the cigarette away and nodded. Not at me, but to someone over to my right.

  I turned my head in time to see Prager materialise from the shelter of a doorway. A glance to the left—a second operative of the same species was stepping out of another doorway. They stopped a respectful couple of metres away, but their intentions were clear. I looked over the icy concrete at Lütten, unconsciously rubbing my leg and wondering whether I could even begin to run.

  “I’ve got your bag,” called Lütten, opening the back door of the Shiguli for me.

  49

  near Wittstock Junction

  Lütten and I sat in the back of the Shiguli, too far to feel the benefit of the feeble heater on the dashboard. Cold seeped from the leatherette seat and through our winter clothes.

  Outside, dusk turned the world ever greyer. Traffic had thinned soon after leaving Rostock, but Prager kept a reasonable speed, he was a careful driver, aware that the Autobahn was icy. Seemed none of us were in a rush to get to Berlin.

  For the first hour or so, the only sound above the beating engine was the thrum and ticking of tires as they ran over joints in the concrete surface of the motorway. Lütten’s head rested against the side window, he gave a good impression of being asleep.

  “Boss,” said Prager from the front, eyes aimed forward, hands at a regulation quarter-to-three. We had just passed through Wittstock junction where the big BMWs and Audis from Hamburg joined us on the journey to Berlin, although they were headed for the other half of the city. “Boss? We need to pull in for petrol.”

  “Then do so,” replied Lütten, not moving from his position.

  In a few minutes we’d be at the service station, the restaurant would still be open—perhaps we’d stop for a cup of coffee? And if we did, how would I use the opportunity? Commandeer a car and drive off?

  But what would be the point? They’d set up a road block at the next junction, perhaps I’d even merit a helicopter. I shifted my legs a little, my knee and ankle reported in, trying to dissuade me from making any sudden movements.

  Blue signs rose out of the night, flashing past in the headlights, but not before they’d told us how far to the service station. Prager put the indicator on, a VW Sirocco overtook us, front wheels squirming on the slick surface.

  Our driver nudged the brakes, repeatedly tapping them to slow us down in time for the sharp turn-off.

  When we drove onto the forecourt, the Sirocco was already there, tanking up on 98 octane. We pulled in next to a pump with lower rated fuel.

  As Prager filled the tank, Lütten leaned forward between the two front seats, twisted the dial on the radio until the news report filled the interior of the car:

  … the workers of the Soviet Union have called for a four-day period of mourning after the death of our dear comrade Yuri Vladimirovich Andropov, General Secretary of the Central Committee of the Communist Party of the Soviet Union, Chairman of the Praesidium of the Supreme Soviet …

  “Why did you do it?” Lütten asked as he slid back into his seat.

  Through the window I watched Prager. He in turn was watching the numbers tick around on the pump. I didn’t answer.

  “I didn’t have any choice, I needed to call it in to protect myself,” Lütten continued. His voice was steady, low. A hint of urgency, but none of apology. But he didn’t need to apologise, I would have done the same myself.

  I looked at him, he was back in his corner, hat pulled low, shading his eyes. To a casual observer, one without ears, he would seem asleep.

  “Was it the subject, that old man? Something he knows, something important to you—or someone? A colleague perhaps?”

  “A colleague. Full marks. Now leave me in peace.” answering his question seemed easier than listening to his guesses.

  “A colleague, then. And this Westerner knows something … An operation, perhaps, over there, in the West? Something went wrong, and you’re looking for someone to blame?”

  He was getting close to the truth, and since I’m not one for sharing, I changed the subject: “What’s happening with Merkur?”

  Lütten looked up, not at me, but through the window, checking Prager’s movements. He’d hung up the nozzle and was heading to the cashier’s office to sign for the fuel. Another minute and he’d be back—that would be the end of the conversation with Lütten.

  “On the train. Should be in the West by now.”

  The car listed as Prager got in. We nosed back onto the motorway and the noise from the engine was loud enough to silence the newsreader.

  50

  Berlin Lichtenberg

  The sentry at the entrance to Berlin Centre was expecting us. He checked Lütten’s clapperboard, then saluted and waved us in. All very polite, all very ominous.

  As we rolled into our assigned parking place in Yard 5, a figure detached itself from the shadows outside the officers’ mess and marched briskly towards us. Prager was out of his seat and saluting the uniformed officer before he was close enough to read the pips on his shoulder, but even from that distance, I recognised the tall, thin man, too narrow for his own uniform, steel glasses: Captain Dupski.

  Lütten and I were trapped in the back seat, unable to open the handle-less doors—Prager hadn’t worked this out yet, but Dupski saw the problem, and the hand raised to return Prager’s salute flicked sharply into a command to let us out.

  Prager turned to open Lütten’s door, then hastened around to my side. I climbed out, rolled my shoulders and stretched my arms. Then, pretending to notice Dupski for the first time, gave him a laconic “Jut’n Abend, Comrade Dupski.”

  “Comrade Unterleutnant Lütten?” Dupski asked, ignoring me for the moment.


  Lütten clicked his heels and fumbled when confronted with Dupski’s extended hand.

  “The canteen is that way, House 18. Take yourself and your man over there for some refreshment,” he ordered, and Lütten and Prager snapped out another salute, just for practice.

  “In trouble again, Comrade Reim?” Now he’d got rid of the other two, my superior relaxed a little. I would have been flattered, but I knew it wasn’t personal. “Word to the wise: the head of section isn’t happy, you’ve put him in a difficult position.”

  I considered this for a moment. It wasn’t much of a revelation, more interesting was the way Dupski had said it—neither gloating nor malicious, his tone tending more towards pity, sympathy even. He’d be no good in a field role.

  The captain accompanied me to my office and told me to wait. So wait I did. I put on my uniform, straightened my cuffs, polished the dull alloy buttons with a handkerchief, switched on the radio to hear the latest on the Soviet leader’s death and sat at my desk to start my written report, all while trying my best to ignore the bottle rattling away in the drawer.

  It was after midnight when the knock came. Not brass—they don’t bother knocking—so probably some flunkey with a message.

  “Herein,” I called, and the door opened. Lütten.

  “I guessed you might still be here,” he said as I gave him a nod to let him know he could come in. He checked the corridor before entering. “The brass have all gone home, thought you’d want to know.”

  “Home?”

  “I saw them leave, that captain who met us in the car park, and the major, too—he had me in for a while, asked lots of questions. Afterwards, I was outside, having a cigarette and I saw them leave the building, the captain and the major. They got into their cars and drove off.”