Funeral in Berlin

by Len Deighton

  There was plenty of traffic on the Ku-damm. Taxis full of sightseers were cruising, huge furniture vans with trailers were leaving for long trips and double-decker buses were making short ones.

  Oddly enough, Berlin is one of the most relaxed big cities of the world and people were smiling and making ponderous Teutonic jokes about soldiers and weather and bowels and soldiers; for Berlin is the only city still officially living under the martial command of foreign armies and if they can’t make jokes about foreign soldiers no one can. Just ahead of me four English girls were adding up their holiday expenses, and deciding whether the budget would let them have lunch in a restaurant or if it was to be Bockwurst sausage from a kiosk on the Ku-damm and eat it in the park. Beyond them were two nurses, dressed in a grey conventual uniform which made them look like extras from All Quiet on the Western Front. And all around me people were munching and drinking. A white-faced man on my left was working out all the permutations on coffee, doughnuts and tiny glasses of Steinhäger, and drinking in the scene around him like any moment he might wake up in Siberia.

  I had the table all to myself until the Science section of Time and my fourth pot of coffee. The man asking if he might sit there wore a very clean white shirt and a suit made from wool and mohair cut with that sort of high roll lapel that Continental tailors think is English. He cleared his throat and adjusted the set of his necktie.

  ‘If I sit at one of the outer tables I shall get wet when the rain begins,’ he apologized. I nodded but he was anxious to talk.

  ‘The crops need it,’ he said. ‘If you live in a town, it’s difficult to understand how welcome it is in the country.’ He smiled and drank his coffee.

  ‘If you live in this town it’s difficult to get into the country,’ I said.

  He smiled. ‘It’s a little…’ He paused. ‘Claustrophobic. Is that right?’

  ‘In every possible way,’ I said. There was a distant roll of thunder, very faint, like a mouse walking across a drum. One of the English girls said, ‘We won’t be able to picnic if it rains.’ The man with the white face was trying to get doughnut sugar off his tie and the German nurses were surreptitiously easing their shoes off.

  ‘They come from the Baltic Sea at this time of year,’ said my companion. One of the English girls said, ‘We’ll just sit in the Mini and eat it.’

  ‘You get a cold front,’ said my companion. ‘Low pressure zone—moves quickly, brings the rain. See that cu-nimbus; when that’s gone, it’ll be fine again.’ The thunder sounded again. He nodded his head knowingly; he was the only mortal in on the secret. He raised his long, carefully manicured hand without looking to see where the waitress was. She initialled his bill with a hasty flick of the pencil, presented it to him on a saucer while confiscating the sugar with the other hand.

  ‘Thunder,’ he said. ‘Sinister sound, eh?’ I nodded. He said smiling. ‘My mother used to tell me that was God having his coal delivered.’ The slow drum-roll of thunder sounded again. I sipped my coffee and watched him as he finished writing something on the back of the bill. He placed the bill face-down on my saucer. The pencilled message was light grey on the poor-quality paper. It said, ‘I will attend to ALL. Go to zoo NOW. See KING.’ The final word in each sentence was underlined three times. The message existed for only a few seconds because I lowered my cup quickly on to it. The dark coffee spilt in my saucer, defiling the coarse fibres into a soggy brown pulp. I twisted my cup and shredded it.

  ‘It sounds just like coal; you must admit it,’ said the man.

  ‘Just like it,’ I said. The thunder sounded again, a little closer this time, and he raised his hand as though he had demonstrated the sound to jog my memory. As I got up to leave, he gave a stiff little bow of the forehead and backed into the table behind him. If he hadn’t tried to save things it would have been all right, but his hands hit the tall pot of coffee. There was a howl of pain as the scalding coffee swept across the table. I could hear the weather man’s voice apologizing in the verbose formalities of German middle-class conversation and the doughnut man’s staccato Berlin accent with its consonant-heavy exactness. A number 19 stopped at the lights and, as I got aboard, I glanced back to see them still at it. The weather man was talking and bowing like a well-made puppet and the doughnut fancier was standing awkwardly holding his steaming trousers away from his tender thighs. The English girls were giggling and one of the nurses was groping under the table for her shoe.

  Ahead of me was Monte Klamott,1 a hill of the Tiergarten made from old flak towers and concrete shelters that were too solid to eradicate; across the top of them the storm clouds were clamped like a stainless steel saucepan-lid. I got off the bus almost immediately and clapped down two marks at the zoo’s main gate. The damp air held musky scents and there was a restless movement of animals. I could see the bison kicking at the ground and somewhere over on the right an elephant was trumpeting. There were a few moments of intense sunshine that photographed the shape of the trees on to the light-brown earth. Some visitors were moving towards the enclosures to avoid the rain. It was hard to believe that this was the heart of the city, except when modern concrete buildings leaned over the trees to reflect themselves in the bright blue ponds. Now that the rain was no longer in doubt, the wind had climbed down from the trees and chased the last crisp, brown leaves around in circles across the gravel paths. A bison rumbled its low threat from somewhere near at hand.

  I saw Vulkan, dressed in a heavy green trenchcoat. He leaned against the waist-high railing in a tense posture. There was no one else in sight. ‘All right?’ Vulkan said and looked behind me in case any one was lurking in the bushes.

  ‘Relax,’ I said. ‘It’s all right.’ A large leaf, as crisp and brown as a piece of breakfast cereal, spun in the wind and settled in Vulkan’s hair. He brushed it aside angrily as though it was a prank that I had played on him.

  ‘You got rid of your tail?’ I felt the impact of a warm raindrop.

  ‘He got a lapful of Pfannkuchen and scalding coffee,’ I said.

  Vulkan nodded. He ran a finger around his lips as though deciding whether to grow a beard. We walked towards the pool marked ‘Flusspferdhaus’. The moisture drew a fresh astringent smell from the grass, which was still dry enough to cling on to the tiny tear-drops of rain.

  ‘There has been such a lot of trouble,’ said Vulkan. We stopped in front of the still blue water. ‘They have taken four of Gehlen’s people in the last week.’

  ‘Who have?’ I asked. A large raindrop hit the water and expanded until it disappeared.

  Vulkan shrugged. ‘I don’t know. STASI or Stok’s people, someone in the East has taken them. They say it’s all your fault.’

  ‘That’s what they say, is it?’ The surface of the water heaved and exploded into a vast shiny greymottled mound.

  ‘They say you talk too much with Stok,’ said Vulkan. The hump split into two as a vast hippopotamus throat opened.

  ‘Those bright boys,’ I said. ‘They are so keen for applause they disembowel themselves as an encore, then they want to sue the audience for damages.’ There was a noise like a U-bahn train and the hippo sank under the water.

  ‘Two of the people they have lost have been tailing you,’ said Vulkan.

  ‘What am I supposed to do?’ I said. ‘I didn’t ask them to tail me.’

  I noticed how spruce Johnnie’s clothes were, from the crisp white collar to the highly polished Oxfords that had picked up a layer of grey dust from the path. Even as I watched, a perfect circle of black shiny leather appeared on the toecap of one shoe. A bright geometrical shape that sagged gently and warped into an oval until the blob of rain drew a black line down to the welt of the dusty shoe and fell into the ground, a grey sphere of water.

  Vulkan leaned forward with his eyes wide open. I realized for the first time that he might be frightened of me. ‘You didn’t give them to Stok?’ he said. ‘You wouldn’t do that, would you?’

  ‘Wouldn’t I?’ I said. ‘I only wish I
had thought of it.’

  Vulkan smiled nervously and twisted a cigarette in his dry lips to prevent it from sticking. He produced a gold lighter and put his head down inside his trenchcoat like a canary going to sleep. He lit the cigarette and tossed his head well back and sucked air in like an addict. ‘I suppose you think that Gehlen’s people are expendable,’ he said.

  ‘You are damn right they are,’ I said. ‘That’s what they get paid for: knowing this town well enough to take risks and get away with it.’ He nodded agreement. I went on, ‘My boys have an entirely different job which is to sink into their environment like butter into hot toast and then not move whatever happens—especially for juvenile little pranks like this one. Gehlen’s mob can’t think of any greater ambition than kidnapping the premier of the USSR. Our aim is to have him working for us.’

  Vulkan laughed nervously but I think he got the idea. He said, ‘You knew that someone was tailing you then?’ There was the screech of an animal somewhere near by. I buttoned up my raincoat collar and a large raindrop hit Vulkan’s cigarette with a loud hissing noise.

  ‘Listen, Johnnie,’ I said. ‘One of my great advantages in this business is that I look a little simpleminded; but I don’t stop there; I act a little simple-minded; I’m crafty, nasty, suspicious and irritable. I look under beds and I rap lamp-posts for hollow compartments. The moment that you think that you know who your friends are is the moment to get another job.’ The rain began a slow disconsolate tattoo and far in the distance the thunder was soft and muffled.

  ‘They were sold,’ said Johnnie, ‘those men’. The circles from the raindrops were describing more and more complex designs on the water.

  ‘Sold or bought,’ I said, ‘what’s the difference?’ The hippo yawned out of the pool again, snorting and blinking and rolling buoyantly so that little waves splashed near our toes.

  ‘They were men,’ said Johnnie. ‘That’s the difference. They weren’t packets of detergent. They were men; with wives, sisters, kids, debts, worries. And they suddenly aren’t going to see them any more. That’s the difference.’ Small areas of earth under the trees were still dusty and grey, while elsewhere the ground became a rich dark brown as the rain beat it gently all over like a goldsmith’s hammer on foil. The animal screeched again and from the same building there came a hard, almost human cry that could have been joy or pain or just something that wanted to have its voice heard.

  ‘It’s no good letting personal feelings wreck you up, Johnnie,’ I said gently. ‘I know how you feel…’

  ‘He was such a good man,’ said Johnnie. The rain was falling hard enough to make tiny rivers in the gravel, and the rough bark of the trees was wet and shiny and so was Johnnie’s face.

  ‘Keep a foot in each camp, Johnnie,’ I said, ‘and they’ll build the barbed wire through you,’ and Johnnie nodded and the rain dripped from his face.

  * * *

  1 Klamott: ancient rubbish.

  Chapter 41

  Strong square: one placed well forward, secure

  from attack and firmly under control.

  Monday, November 4th

  German merchant banks are more conservative in their methods than their London counterparts but they still return a generous measure of profit. One small bank near the Ku-damm can hardly fail; it is backed by the Bank of England and is used by three British Intelligence groups as a clearing house for information. For obvious reasons each unit keeps to its own codes. My message only said, ‘HOLD FIXED INTEREST ANNUITIES’; but to Dawlish it meant:

  Further to your instructions, the Gehlen Bureau has been thoroughly penetrated by Soviet Intelligence Groups in East Berlin. The agents now in Soviet hands will have had the list of ‘tactical objectives’ with which we provided them last month. There is good reason to hope that the Russians will not realize that this information has been deliberately planted upon them by us.

  I had also arranged a call from the bank to Hallam’s office. Hallam was waiting at the Home Office for the phone to ring.

  ‘You’ve made me late for lunch,’ said Hallam.

  ‘Well, that’s too bad,’ I said. His voice was crystal clear. The arrangement was that I merely had to say the code words ‘Action imminent’ to tell the Home Office that I was expecting the exchange to take place within four hours. His reply to indicate all standing by was ‘Unanimous agreement’: but he said, ‘Bogey, old chap, bogey.’

  ‘What do you mean “bogey”?’ I said. ‘Bogey’ was the alternative code word that meant the whole operation was cancelled.

  ‘Semitsa’s been made persona non grata,’ said Hallam. ‘I’m not permitted to discuss it.’

  ‘You bloody well are permitted to discuss it,’ I said. ‘The whole thing is arranged.’

  ‘What’s happened to the papers?’ Hallam said.

  ‘I’ve given them to Vulkan,’ I said. This wasn’t strictly true as I had them in my pocket.

  ‘Oh well, that can’t be helped. Leave the documents in his possession. Let him handle everything as he wants. We officially withdraw all sanction and agreement. I’m putting that in writing immediately after lunch and pushing it round to your people early this afternoon. This operation is off as far as my people are concerned. We find that the other Government’ [he meant the Soviet Government, of course] ‘are not aware of the transaction. It is unofficial and we want to have nothing to do with it. My personal advice, for what it’s worth, is to withdraw without notice.’

  ‘And leave Vulkan in the lurch,’ I said.

  ‘You are an employee. Vulkan is an indirect employee. Your employers are responsible to Vulkan, not you.’ Hallam made it sound like an edict from the Institute of Directors.

  There was a lengthy silence. Then Hallam said, ‘Hello, Berlin. Are we still connected?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said.

  ‘Is that understood, Berlin?’

  ‘It’s all understood, Hallam.’

  ‘It’s no good taking that tone. It’s official. It’s a top-level decision, nothing to do with me.’

  ‘No, it wouldn’t be.’

  ‘We are closing points of entry as far as those documents are concerned, so it’s no good Vulkan or you trying to use them. It’s the Home Secretary’s decision.’

  ‘——off, Hallam,’ I said.

  ‘Don’t talk out of turn.’

  ‘It’s my native language.’

  ‘Sorry you’re taking it all personally. Don’t forget. Bogey, bogey. I have my recorder going.’

  ‘Bogey——bogey to you, Hallam,’ I said. ‘Play that back to yourself this afternoon when you’ve finished lunch.’

  Chapter 42

  The Exchange: when a player sacrifices

  something for an opponent’s piece of lesser

  value he is said to be ‘the exchange down’.

  Monday, November 4th

  The first thing you see is the ‘No Entry’ sign. It’s on the corner of Friedrichstrasse and beyond that the whole thing is laid out. There is the little white hut sitting in the middle of the road with ‘US ARMY CHECKPOINT’ written in huge letters on the roof. Then above there is a flagpole flying the Stars and Stripes and there are always a few olive-and-white Taunus cars and jeeps about. There are some West German policemen standing around in long grey overcoats and Afrika Korps caps and inside the hut a couple of young pink-faced GI’s in starched khaki shirts write in a vast ledger and sometimes talk on the phone. There are lots of notices but the biggest one says, ‘You are leaving the American Sector’ and then says the same thing over again in French and Russian. Filing past that, prim old lady journalists go crowding up the short flight of steps that lead nowhere, like it’s the royal box for the last public hanging.

  The wall itself is a shoddy breeze-block affair that looks as though one of the old ladies falling off the steps could tumble the whole thing from here to Potsdamerplatz. The West German policeman stands very near the wall on the West side and he lifts the long-hinged barrier for the traffic. On the East
ern side there are three solid concrete barriers that block three-quarters of the road’s width. Since the gaps they leave are staggered, a vehicle driven through has to zig-zag at full lock slowly past the barriers. That’s what the big hearse had to do after they had removed the coffin.

  Six uniformed men were hastily pressed into service as coffin-bearers. There were Vopos, Grepos, policemen and soldiers stumbling along under the heavy weight and swinging their caps in their hands at arm’s length to help them keep their balance. A policeman at the front missed his footing at one moment and almost fell, but an elderly NCO began to sing out the time in the idiom of the old Army. They rested the coffin down on to the stretcher-like grid of the bier at the second barrier. The policeman who had nearly fallen wiped the inside of his shako and then held it up to adjust the cockade so that he didn’t have to look at the others.

  It looked as though the DDR had chosen a representative of each of its services as they stood there dusting off their blue, green and grey shoulders where the coffin had left an epaulette of dirt. Beneath me on the American side of the barrier were thirty men, all dressed in khaki light-weight raincoats. Each of them had a strange-shaped leather box at his feet. There were boxes for bassoons and boxes for bass clarinets, boxes for French horns, trombones, violins and cornets. The kettledrums were wrapped in soft black velvet bags. Two girls stood among the men dressed in the same raincoats but wearing long white woollen stockings. From where they were standing below me they couldn’t see as well as I could. ‘Some kinda procession, ain’t it?’ one said.

  ‘Bringing a funeral through by the look.’