Little Grey Mice

by Brian Freemantle

  ‘Well?’ demanded the psychologist, Yuri Panin. With Nikolai Turev he had spent two days reviewing and assessing all the film footage and tape recordings. Both had actually sat, quite unmoved, on the other side of the main mirror in the bedroom to watch the sexual activity on the day of Jutta’s arrival.

  ‘I didn’t think much of his performance,’ said Turev. He was chainsmoking American cigarettes, Camels, clouding the room with the odour. Turev, who was a full ranking colonel, was apprehensive at being chosen as Reimann’s field control, which would anyway have been far below his position but for the Politburo and Executive President monitor on the operation. Everyone associated with Reimann’s mission survived or fell by its success.

  ‘It was absolutely brilliant!’ contradicted Panin, at once.

  ‘Brilliant?’ frowned Turev, wishing he understood.

  ‘Think how he’s been trained!’ urged the psychologist. ‘He could have shown her the sort of sex she’s probably never even heard of: gone through every trick there is. But that’s what it would have been, a set of tricks. Which she would have realized. They made love as they probably always have. He was actually reassuring her, keeping the tricks for his target. Showing Jutta she’s not threatened. Which, as I said, was absolutely brilliant.’

  ‘I suppose so,’ said Turev, doubtfully. He was a butter-ball of a man, with heavy jowls and a shiny, pink face. The shortness of his neck was accentuated by a heavy moustache that hung like two question marks from either side of his upper lip. The moustache, like his hair, was pure white.

  ‘He was doing something else, for his own satisfaction,’ continued Panin, reflectively. ‘He knows what he could have done: what he held back from her.’

  Turev frowned again. ‘Where’s the satisfaction in that?’

  ‘Remember the circumstances!’ urged Panin. ‘He was sent to Berlin, to join the group of which she was cell leader. She was the cell leader when they got married, so she always had the superior authority. Always – professionally – he had to defer to her.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘That’s unnatural: completely so, for every minute of their private and working lives. He insisted at our last meeting that it didn’t worry him. But now I think it did. I think he was amusing himself with her: feeling superior at last. I think he’s resented her superiority all along.’

  ‘Could that be a problem?’ demanded the KGB chief, quickly alarmed.

  ‘The fact that he’s married has always been a potential problem,’ said Panin unhelpfully. ‘I’ve always wished the look-alike could have been a bachelor. But it’s Reimann. So we’ve got to live with it.’

  ‘Isn’t there any precaution we can take?’

  Panin shook his head. ‘Just remain very aware that it is a weakness: something we should constantly monitor. And I think I should sit in when you brief her, on what she’s expected to do.’

  ‘How should I handle that?’

  ‘Flatter her.’

  Chapter Five

  It was difficult to give absolute attention, even for someone as conscientious as Elke, because the security lectures had always been formalized and now seemed more so, nothing she had not heard a dozen (or was it a hundred?) times before. She glanced around the small conference room at the other supervisors, all with a clearance as high as her own, and guessed they all felt the same: boredom permeated the room.

  ‘… continued and unremitting vigilance …’ she heard the speaker intone. He was a tall, intense, moustached man who had not addressed them before. She wondered if the speakers were changed in an attempt to keep the talks as interestingly different as possible. It wasn’t succeeding with this man: he was as pedantic as the title of the ministry he represented, the Federal Agency for the Preservation of the Constitution.

  ‘… apparent relaxations between East and West do not mean Soviet intelligence efforts have diminished at all …’

  Last weekend’s visit to Ursula had been much better, although she’d been upset by Ida’s last-minute telephone call announcing she couldn’t come as promised. It hadn’t mattered, in the event. Ursula had seemed much quieter this time, happy to walk in the grounds, seemingly content for them to hold hands. Maybe it had been silly leaving Poppi in the car, as she had: it was a relief he had recovered so completely. And so quickly.

  ‘… anything strange should be reported immediately to your superiors or to the security division here in the Chancellery …’

  Gerda Pohl appeared to have been corrected, which was another relief. The meeting with the union representative had become a mere formality, after the slipshod work had actually been produced for him to see. Elke hadn’t expected Werle’s personal intervention, when he’d heard of the requested interview. All he’d said afterwards was that he’d supported her, in everything, but Elke suspected there had been more than that. The improvement hadn’t removed Gerda’s resentment, but Elke was wearily accustomed to that.

  ‘… almost every case on record would have been preventable if the proper alertness had been shown, at the proper time …’

  Ida had been right, about Kissel serving the same disgusting wine because she’d praised it on the first occasion. Poor man.

  ‘… reporting suspicion about other people in a department is not unnecessary interference …’

  Elke feared that a woman in the Chancellor’s Secretariat whom she did not know by name, only to return an acknowledging smile, was definitely asleep. Elke wished she were closer, to nudge her awake.

  ‘… our secrets ensure our future … our security …’

  Elke decided the moustached intelligence official was more pompous than any they’d listened to before. She was looking forward to lunching with Ida, and hoped she wouldn’t cancel it as she’d cancelled the visit to Ursula. She had to get some more bathroom cleanser. Polish, too. She’d do the bedrooms tonight. Like all things, the arrangement was very regulated, according to days of the week.

  ‘… questions?’

  Elke began to concentrate, realizing the address was over. She saw, gratefully, that the secretariat official had her eyes open. The intelligence man looked hopefully around the room. No one spoke.

  ‘I want to emphasize the importance of what I’ve said,’ the man insisted. ‘It’s easy, I know, to believe that talks like this are irrelevant now. They’re not: none of you should imagine that. The opening of the borders and demolition of the Wall increases rather than decreases espionage activities. Never forget that!’

  There was a muttering of assent and some head nodding, throughout the room.

  ‘I hope you do,’ said the man, disappointed at the lack of responses. ‘I thank you all for your attention. I hope to see you again …’ He paused, for the prepared joke. ‘… But only in this capacity.’

  Everyone smiled and sniggered politely. There was an eagerness to stand and leave. Elke managed to insert herself into the middle of the departing line. There were five logged calls waiting, none from Ida. Elke dealt with them and ensured there were no queries from the outside staff and was at the restaurant precisely on time. Ida, predictably, was late. Elke felt exposed, on view, at the table by herself and wished she had a newspaper or a book. Without either she made the pretence of studying the menu, although she had already decided upon a salad: according to the scales she had lost the weight she’d put on, and she was determined against gaining it again.

  Ida flustered in fifteen minutes late, striding assuredly across the restaurant. Elke was conscious of men at two separate tables following her sister’s progress: the waiter came immediately, inquiring about an aperitif. Ida said they’d have wine, without consulting Elke. It was offered without question for Ida to approve, which she did. As she sipped from her full glass Ida said: ‘Bloody sight better than what Horst serves.’

  ‘I was sorry you couldn’t make last Sunday,’ said Elke, expecting an explanation.

  ‘Soon, I promise,’ said Ida, without offering one.

  ‘We walked, in the grounds. Had
lunch in the conservatory. She’s growing quite tall. I have to get her some new clothes.’

  ‘Doris might have something she’s outgrown.’

  ‘She’s much bigger than Doris,’ Elke reminded, politely. The offer had been made before and always refused. There was no reason for Ursula to be dressed in second-hand clothes because she was in an institution she rarely left and where her appearance was unimportant, either to herself or to the staff. Like not bothering to knock on her door, it deprived the child of dignity.

  They gave their order and as the waiter left Ida smiled and said: ‘He called.’

  ‘Who?’ said Elke, momentarily forgetting.

  ‘Kurt. He called.’

  ‘What did you do?’

  ‘Talked, of course.’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘He said he hoped he hadn’t offended me, at the dinner party.’

  ‘Which was an ideal opportunity to say that he had and put the phone down,’ Elke declared.

  ‘Prig!’ accused Ida, laughing.

  ‘What did you say?’

  ‘That he hadn’t.’

  ‘Idiot! You’re encouraging him!’

  ‘It’s harmless.’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous! How can it be harmless?’

  ‘Nothing’s happened!’ Ida’s lightness was going, although there was no anger.

  ‘What about the risk of hurting Horst? And Doris? And Georg?’ Was it another attempt of Ida’s to shock?

  ‘No one’s going to get…’ started Ida, and stopped. ‘Let’s talk about something else.’

  ‘Did you arrange to see him?’ Elke persisted.

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘What does “not really” mean?’

  ‘The conversation kind of drifted off. I think he lost his nerve. He certainly stuttered more than I remembered.’

  ‘Perhaps he came to his senses.’

  ‘Whatever,’ dismissed Ida. ‘That was it! No plans, no nothing.’

  Elke wondered if her sister was telling the truth. If she was lying it would be the first time: at least the first time that she’d suspected or found out.

  ‘Would you have met him, if he had asked?’

  ‘This is an inquisition!’ Ida protested, but still without anger.

  ‘It’s meant to be.’

  Ida sighed. ‘Maybe. Maybe not.’

  ‘That’s not an answer. You must have thought about it as soon as you realized who it was on the phone: made up your mind!’

  The waiter’s return gave Ida a few moments’ respite before she conceded: ‘I hadn’t, not really. Sure I thought about it. First I thought I might and then I thought I wouldn’t and in the end I didn’t know what to do.’

  Again Elke wondered whether her sister was lying and an assignation really was arranged. ‘Don’t see him!’ she pleaded. ‘Please don’t.’ It frightened her to confront how important Ida was to her. She supposed she’d always known it, subconsciously – of course she had! – but now she was positively examining how it was between them and was scared. Embarrassed, too, because she conceded at once and with utter honesty that her concern wasn’t for Kissel or Doris or Georg or even Ida. It was for herself. Ida was her security: the only person upon whom she could rely. She’d always felt reassured, knowing Ida was there: knowing ineffectual Horst was there. She didn’t want the danger of everything being upset because Ida was bored and flattered by the attentions of another man. By the lust of another man, Elke corrected. How she hated and despised sex!

  ‘You’re not eating your salad,’ said Ida, avoiding the plea.

  ‘I don’t want to eat my salad.’

  ‘I said I’m sorry: I shouldn’t have talked about it.’

  ‘Why shouldn’t you? We don’t have any secrets, do we?’ It was as if Ida were aware of the fears, but Elke knew that wasn’t so.

  ‘No,’ agreed Ida. ‘We don’t have any secrets.’

  Perhaps her sister wasn’t lying, after all. Elke said: ‘There isn’t anything else to say, not without going around in circles.’

  ‘Thank God!’ said Ida.

  ‘Will you tell me, if there is?’ said Elke.

  Ida considered the demand for several moments, again looking very directly and seriously at Elke. Then she said: ‘Yes, of course I’ll tell you.’

  Elke didn’t enjoy the lunch and didn’t think Ida had either, although at the end she insisted it was fun. They filled the time talking of Kissel and the children and Elke contributed as much as she considered she could about the Chancellery, but there was a strain that was more obvious to them both because it was so unusual for there to be any barrier at all. Elke’s feeling of unease, a disorientation, persisted throughout the afternoon and she was grateful that it was relatively quiet, with few telephone calls, no problems from the staff with the work they were assigned and only one request from Günther Werle. That was to arrange the visit of his wife to the health spa close to Munich.

  The fully recovered Poppi bustled around her when she got back to Kaufmannstrasse and she went through the greeting procedure before walking and feeding him. Now that she had lunched, the threatening quarter kilo precluded another meal that day. She decided to do Ursula’s bedroom first.

  It was not complete sentimentality preserving Ursula’s pink-washed room as she had, everything in place from the day the child had left to go to the institution. Ursula had come home twice, at Christmas and once for her birthday: during Elke’s holiday last year she’d tried to have the girl an entire week and managed four days before Ursula became distressed at the change and had to be returned to the surroundings and the professional care to which she had become accustomed.

  There was a bed with a duvet covered with brightly coloured fairy tale characters and over it a mobile of more fairy tale figures and stars and glittering shapes that Ursula had gazed at and seemed to like: certainly she’d gurgled and smiled and followed them with her eyes, when she’d been a baby. When Ursula visited now Elke removed the mobile, on the advice of Dr Schiller, because he thought it might prove dangerous. Perhaps keeping all the baby clothes and the dresses of those first years was nostalgic sentimentality. Like the fluffy-furred bear and the beaver toy with the bright red eyes, which also had to be removed during Ursula’s visits, against the risk of her picking the eyes off to eat, as if they were sweets. There was a music box in the shape of a gingerbread house, which played a Strauss waltz when the roof was lifted, and more picture books like those in Ursula’s room at the home near Marienfels.

  It was quite unnecessary for Elke to clean as she had the previous week and the week before that, but the practice was entrenched. She vacuumed and dusted and polished, not simply around the things but taking them down or moving them, with no short cuts. She remade the bed which did not need remaking and as she did so disturbed the mobile, which revolved briefly, tinkling: she stopped to watch and listen, remembering when it had hung over Ursula’s cot, not the bed. Ursula had liked it: recognized it and smiled at it. Elke was sure she had.

  The small dressing table was last. Again Elke removed everything on top, first dusting, then polishing. There wasn’t a lot to replace: the lace runner which stretched across its top, a hair brush and a hand mirror, and a pot-pourri dish that Elke regularly changed, and an empty bowl to hold the small things that girls collect, although Ursula had never collected small things like other girls. The china figure of a fawn was last. Elke stood staring at it, held by the reminiscence. It was very cheap and poorly made, the sort of trinket to be discarded the day after it had been picked up. They’d won it together, when Ursula was about nine: at a spring fair with sideshows and stalls. Elke had used a fishing rod with a ring on the line to hook a floating duck to win a prize. Ursula had squealed with delight and demanded it and slept with it for almost two weeks before ceasing to acknowledge or be excited by it. It was the longest the child had ever retained interest in anything, the longest Elke had ever kept the hope that somehow Ursula would ever improve. Elke came mentally t
o regard the fading brown figure as Ursula’s talisman: despite everything, it was how she still thought of it and referred to it, in her mind. Elke held it and wiped away non-existent dust before carefully returning it to its appointed place. Perhaps, she thought, Ursula might recognize it again, on her next visit. She hadn’t mentioned the possibility of a visit to Dr Schiller for a long time and he had not raised the idea with her. On her way between the bedrooms Elke glanced sideways into the kitchen and to Poppi, asleep in his basket. Perhaps another visit was something she should discuss in some detail with Dr Schiller, not propose without the fullest consideration.

  Elke finished her own bedroom at nine o’clock, precisely the time she expected, as it would be eight o’clock before she finished the kitchen and bathroom the following evening and eight o’clock the night after that to complete the living room – where the bookshelves all had to be dusted – and tiny entrance hall.

  She always felt dirty, after a cleaning session. She ran the bath hot, adding salts as well as foam essence, and brought the radio in to play from the far window recess. She was completely immersed, with the radio too far away to turn off, which she would have quickly done if she could, when the music started.

  It was Chopin’s ‘Chanson de l’Adieu’ and had been played on their first outing together, when he had taken her to the Cologne concert. Which was still not sufficient reason for its meaning to her. By coincidence, and on a radio again, it had played the night they’d made love, for the first time, the night she’d lost her virginity. Elke luxuriated, felt herself floating, the perfume of the oils and the salts all around her. Her hand dipped beneath the water, as she knew it would, and she moved her legs very slightly, to make it easier, not hurrying, wanting it to last. She shuddered, legs stiff before her, at the final release, anxious for it not to end.

  The remorse was instant. She had no grounds for criticizing Ida for lacking control, she told herself.