Leaving Weber outside in the cold, I pushed a twenty Pfennig coin into the slot and dialled the number Pozdniakov had given me—a Berlin number, although for all I knew the call would be redirected to anywhere from here to Moscow.
“Burratino here, I need to make contact,” I said in Russian once I had a connection. There was a pause, several clicks, then a voice—male, Russian, but not Pozdniakov himself—came on the line.
“This is Burratino, I am meeting the major in a few hours. I need transport, can you provide?” I was nervous, my Russian coming out slowly, the declensions skewed, but my interlocutor understood.
“What’s your position?”
“Mittenwalde, east of Königs Wusterhausen, to the south of Berlin.”
“Wait on the bridge over the canal. Twenty minutes.”
“There’s two of-” But he’d already hung up.
I left the phone box and gestured to Weber to follow.
“What’s the plan?”
“I’ve made contact with someone who can use the material Bruno put together.”
“Who? Can we trust them? Will they make sure Sachse gets what he deserves?”
I crossed the road, picking my way between snowdrifts mottled russet and grey with soot.
“What guarantee do we have that your contact will act on the material?” She was persistent, but I wasn’t prepared to have this conversation on the high street, no matter how small the town.
We reached the bridge over the canal, and on the far side, I took the steps down to the towpath and walked along a few metres, Weber staying a step or two behind. Once sure we were alone, I turned to her.
“This is the only chance we have—I want Sachse to pay for what he did as much as you do, but I can’t do anything by myself.”
She listened, hands buried in her pockets, stamping her feet a little against the cold that was creeping up from the ice-bound canal.
“What other options are there? If, somehow, you got this material back over the border, what would you do with it there? You want to wait until Sachse takes a trip to the West so you can arrest him? He’s not stupid, he knows what we’re up to and he’ll make sure never to come your way. No, we have to deal with him over here—and I can’t do it and you can’t do it, so we need help.”
She was thinking about what I’d said, still stamping her feet, and I checked my watch. Ten minutes until rendez-vous.
“You on board?” I asked when it looked like she’d rattled it around her brain for long enough.
She nodded.
“OK, give me the material,” I said, holding out my hand.
Weber hesitated, turning slightly to the canal. The low sun picked out each crack and flaw in the ice. Heavy stones were scattered over the surface, thrown from the bridge—I think she was counting them. Then, abruptly, she turned, unbuttoned her coat and reached inside to take out the oilskin pouch.
I took it from her, and we went back up the steps to the bridge.
If anything, it was even colder up there.
The UAZ jeep came from the south, stopped at the curbside and a uniformed Soviet soldier slid out, appearing next to Weber, a hand gripping her upper arm before she could shy away.
She stood there, between the Russian and myself, eyes wide, mouth hanging open, letting the cold air in.
“Sadis’ nazad!” the Russian ordered, pulling her towards the vehicle.
I opened the back door, and trapped between us, Weber had little choice but to get in. The soldier closed the door and I went around the vehicle and climbed in the other side.
“Your contact is a Soviet?” Weber whispered, her voice unsteady. I smiled, wondering what fairy tales Westerners told each other about the ferociously ruthless Soviets.
Whatever they said, I doubted it came close to the reality.
80
Wünsdorf
The driver of the UAZ did a U-turn on the bridge, forcing oncoming traffic to a stop.
“Don’t worry.” I patted Weber’s arm where the soldier had grabbed her. She flinched, but then sat back, recognising there was little she could do about her situation. She spent the journey looking out the window, as if memorising our route.
We were on the old F96 trunk road to Zossen, long since barred to through traffic, leading instead to the headquarters of the Group of Soviet Forces in Germany.
Weber watched silently as the sentries at the main gate first examined the driver’s identification, then his written orders. A telephone call was made, then the papers were returned and we were allowed through. Her eyes widened again as we passed along the main road through the camp, women in everyday clothing, stamping and ploughing prams through the snow, surrounded by uniforms and military vehicles of every kind. The bright children’s pictures in the windows of a kindergarten, noticeboards cradled in futuristic concrete curves, shops without queues. I had my eyes wide open too, it was the first time I’d been in the Wünsdorf camp, and knowing that this was the biggest base outside the Soviet Union didn’t compare with actually seeing the extent of it.
We rumbled past concrete walls, the upper storeys of barracks peeking over the top—the militarist legacy of the Kaiser and Nazi eras repurposed to support the fight for peace and Socialism.
We turned off the main drag, past smaller houses used for civilian purposes, before pulling up at another gateway. A second inspection of our paperwork, shorter this time, and the gate was opened. Moments later, the UAZ came to a halt outside the Soviet railway station—next to, but separate from the station provided for us Germans.
The driver stayed where he was, but his pal was opening Weber’s door before I’d even realised that we’d reached our destination.
He escorted her up the steps to the modern station building and I dutifully followed behind. Ever the polite gentleman, the soldier opened the main door to allow Weber to enter, then a second door off the main corridor. He gave her a not ungentle push into the room beyond and pulled the door shut on her. I briefly saw her face pressed against the peephole before the soldier swung the covering to and latched it.
As I was shown into a more comfortable office opposite, Weber began to hit the cell door, her fists beating dully against the heavy wood. My own door was left ajar and I could see our escort had positioned himself in the corridor.
I could still hear Weber hammering away, but there wasn’t much I could do about that, so I looked around my room, trying to work out what kind of trouble I might be in. A couple of desks, several chairs. A mural on the wall, showing Lenin, still holding Marx’s bestseller in one hand, the other hooked around his lapel, keeping himself steady while he looked the future in the eye, even though he’d been dead and embalmed for over sixty years.
Other than an out of date copy of the Izvestia, there was nothing else to hold my interest. I stood by the window, looking out at a rake of goods wagons, wider and higher than usual for this country—the Moscow express, made up of Russian rolling stock.
My observations were interrupted by a soft footfall behind me. I spun around to find an orderly depositing a glass of tea on the desk.
“The Major will be with you shortly,” he informed me.
I drank the tea by the window. Weber had ceased making a din, although the soldier remained in the hallway. Outside, the lamps had been turned on, bathing the platforms and goods yard in anaemic light. As I watched, a small shunter pushed a passenger carriage to the nearest platform. Just seeing the opaque windows, small and high up, was enough for me to guess it was a prison wagon.
“Burratino—you’re early!” A warm voice, a smile that didn’t reach his one operational eye. Pozdniakov had arrived.
I lifted the oilcloth pouch out of my jacket pocket and put it on the desk between us, but the major ignored the offering, tilting his head towards the doorway he asked: “Who’s your friend?”
“She’s not a friend. She found the material before I did—thought it best to bring her along.”
He nodded, then began pacing alon
g the side of the desk, lighting a papirosa as he went. I lit one of my own coffin nails, and we smoked for a while, doing our bit for German-Soviet friendship.
“Who is she?” he asked after half a cigarette.
“West German. An operative with some experience and good knowledge of East Berlin. Possibly BKA, but her role and skill set indicate Verfassungsschutz or BND. First contact in Rostock, she somehow links to Merkur, but I’m not sure whether she’s here to support him or to stop him.”
Pozdniakov stood still while I said my piece, then went back to measuring the room. I could have saved him the bother—it was five paces one way, six the other.
“Good. You were right to bring her to me,” he decided. “And the material? Give me your assessment.” He let his eyes drop briefly to the small package on the table.
“Photographic film negatives and microfiches of individual pages from various files. They show operational contact between First Lieutenant Sachse and a senior officer of the imperialist West German Crime Agency, Polizeidirektor Jüliger in Wiesbaden. The Polizeidirektor handles an agent in the MfS, codename Dresden, and the material indicates that Sachse may be Dresden.”
Pozdniakov put out his cigarette. It seemed a little enthusiastic to me, the aluminium ashtray skeetering over the surface of the desk.
“Anything else?”
“Other documents show Comrade Sachse had operational contact with several individuals connected to the West German terrorist organisation RAF, some of whom have settled in the GDR, others who were here for training and debriefing by HV A.”
We’d been speaking in Russian, but now Pozdniakov switched to German: “Did you hear all of that, First Lieutenant?”
I stared at the Russian, confused, but then I clocked the figure leaning against the door jamb. Even if he’d worn a wig to cover his fair hair and dark glasses to disguise his translucent eyes, I would have recognised Sachse by the sardonic smile.
81
Wünsdorf
Sachse strutted into the room. He paused for a moment to smirk at the sling around my arm, visible beneath my open jacket, then stepped around Pozdniakov and reached for the oilskin pouch on the desk. But he wasn’t quick enough—the KGB officer’s hand was there first, he took hold of Sachse’s wrist and jerked his hand down sharply. The rest of Sachse followed, and although he didn’t cry out in pain, his grin deserted him.
“You had your chance, and you failed.” Pozdniakov released Sachse’s wrist, allowing him to stand up. “Go back to Rostock and wait for my orders.”
Sachse stood for a moment, rubbing his wrist and glowering at me. “You should take him to Siberia along with the old man and that interfering girl!” he hissed, but Pozdniakov was more interested in examining his watch than listening to Sachse’s recommendations.
I watched him leave the room, waiting for the sound of the outside door to open and close before turning back to Pozdniakov. “What’s he doing here?”
The Russian didn’t feel the need to answer. He picked up the oilskin pouch and dropped it into his tunic pocket.
“You’ll use the material against him? Sachse didn’t just kill Bruno, he’s responsible for Sanderling too—he is, isn’t he?” And when I said that, I remembered the airfield in Lärz—how Pozdniakov had shown no reaction when I told him of Merkur’s allegation that someone in the Firm was a double.
You only have to whisper the words Mole or Double Agent for a hush to descend over Berlin Centre. Tape recorders stop whirring, microphones and lights dim and there’s an audible gasp as everyone draws a sharp breath. But Pozdniakov hadn’t even paused before moving on to the next question.
Major Pozdniakov left the room, and I followed him into the hall. The sentry had Weber’s cell door open, she was standing just inside, her fancy coat, now ripped and dirty, was hanging open, her scarf draped over her shoulders like a shawl. She looked Pozdniakov up and down, her eyes flicking over the blue KGB flashes on his collar, counting the pips and stripes on his shoulders.
“Take her to the train,” Pozdniakov instructed.
I didn’t know whether Weber could understand Russian, if she didn’t, she was about to find out what the KGB officer had said. The soldier took hold of her upper arm, she didn’t try to squirm out of his grasp, but she did turn her head to me.
“Where are they taking me?” She pushed her hair back behind her right ear as she asked.
I could have told her: the Moscow Express. But I didn’t. I shrugged as she was dragged out of the building and onto the platform.
Pozdniakov had turned, was looking through the window of the office we’d just vacated. Together we watched the guard push Weber up the steep steps of the prison carriage. She struggled briefly, holding onto the sides of the doorway, but the guard swiped the back of her legs and she went down, her knees landing on the sharp edge of the top step.
Only when Weber had been dragged out of sight did Pozdniakov move again.
I tagged along as he headed upstairs, into another corridor, the twin of that on the ground floor. We halted at a heavy, grey painted door, a hinged metal plate in the centre covering a peephole.
“I thought you might like to say goodbye,” said Pozdniakov, already turning away.
A uniformed soldier turned a large key in the lock and pulled the door open to allow me in.
Merkur was sitting on a wooden board attached to the wall, he looked up as I entered, but his face didn’t lift in recognition or surprise. He was wearing the same clothes I’d seen him in the day before, still no shoes on his feet. His face was grey, except for the pockets under his eyes, which were almost black with fatigue.
“I’m to be taken to Russia,” he informed me, his voice flat, his chin slowly dropping until it met his chest.
I didn’t reply. I hadn’t found any words for Weber, I didn’t even bother trying for Merkur.
“I had to tell them about Arno’s material, I didn’t have a choice …” He looked up again. “Did you get there before them? Did you find the cache?”
I nodded.
“And you can use the material? Sachse will face the consequences for his actions? Is he done for? Tell me he’s finished!” His chin remained high, life briefly returning to his face.
I measured the hope in those eyes, and remembered Bruno, Sanderling and my friend Holger.
“Yes, we have enough evidence,” I told him. “Sachse is finished—I’ll see to it myself.”
Behind me, the guard discreetly cleared his throat. Time up.
“Then it was worth it,” said Merkur as I left, his voice almost lost as the cell door slammed.
82
Berlin Friedrichshain
I caught the next train out of Wünsdorf, but it still took me a long time to get home. I walked back from station, stopping off at every bar to dull the pain.
Once there, I paused at the front door, turning to survey the street. No kid on his first watching mission, no dark blue Shiguli registered in Rostock.
Up the stairs, let myself into my flat and stand by the window, finishing off the bottle of Kümmel that Lütten had brought that night.
Half drunk yet completely sober, I lifted my bag onto the coffee table and started to empty it. The used clothes, the various hats, scarves and other disguises I hadn’t bothered with in Warnemünde. And in a side pocket, rolled so tightly it hadn’t been crushed, the portrait Anna Weber drew that night in the Fischerklause. I unrolled it, clumsy with only one good arm, and stared at myself.
She was right, the charcoal had smudged.
Reim returns in
Rostock Connection
Turn the page for a list of main characters and a Reim glossary
Sign up to Max Hertzberg's newsletter for sneak previews, special offers and information about new books by this author.
List of Main Characters
MfS staff
Eberhard Dupski, captain, Reim’s immediate superior.
Wolfgang Koschak, major general, head of HV A/IX.
Horst Lütten, second lieutenant at Rostock District Administration.
Georg Prager, corporal at Rostock District Administration.
Hans-Peter Reim, second lieutenant based in ZAIG/II, Berlin Centre.
Gerhard Sachse, first lieutant in foreign intelligence (HV A/Abt XV Rostock).
Sanderling, code name for Ruth Gericke, lieutenant, HA II. Also known under the operational name Gisela Bauer.
Walter Schur, lieutenant colonel, head of HA II/2
Matthias ‘Matse’ Stoyan, second lieutenant HA VI.
Other characters
Source Bruno, codename for Arnold ‘Arno’ Seiffert.
Andreas Portz, polizeirat in the BKA, Arnold Seiffert’s superior.
Dmitri Alexandrovich Pozdniakov, major. KGB liaison with HV A and HA II/5.
Arnold Seiffert, officer of the BKA, defected to the GDR in the book Berlin Centre.
Werner Seiffert, Arnold Seiffert’s father.
Anna Weber, chambermaid at the Hotel Neptun in Warnemünde.
Glossary
MfS organisation
Abteilung – Department. The Hauptabteilungen (HA—main departments) were based in Berlin (most at Berlin Centre in Lichtenberg), responsible for national co-ordination and strategy in their areas of responsibility.
The Abteilungen were sub-departments of the HAs, either based in Berlin, (e.g. Abt. M, Abt. 26) or the equivalent departments in the District Administrations and County Offices. Most local departments kept the number of the Main Department they belonged to (e.g. Abt. II represented HA II), the main exception being Abt. XV, the local level of the HV A.
Baltic Approach Page 24