‘Maybe.’ EIke felt there was no other reply.
He helped her from the car and extended his hand, inclining forward in a suggestion of a formal bow when she took it.
‘How was it?’ demanded Ida eagerly when she telephoned the following evening.
‘Wonderful,’ Elke lied.
When the telephone rang again within the hour, Elke thought it was her sister wanting to talk about something she had forgotten on the first call.
‘This is Otto Reimann,’ said the voice. ‘My car was involved in the collision with yours, at the weekend?’
‘Yes,’ said Elke. At last!
‘Just thought I’d call to see that everything’s going along all right,’ said Reimann brightly. ‘The police tell me they haven’t caught anyone, though.’
‘The police told me that, too,’ said Elke. ‘And everything is not going along all right. It’s becoming very difficult.’ She hadn’t intended to be accusing, as if it were his fault.
Just about the right amount of aggrieved indignation, judged Reimann, satisfied. He said: ‘That’s terrible! What’s the problem?’
‘Apportioning guilt or blame.’
This wasn’t to be a protracted discussion, Reimann reflected: there had to be a meeting, the two of them face to face again. Pushing the concern into his voice, he said: ‘Could we meet, perhaps, to talk about it? As I told you at the time, I’d like to be able to sort it out, if I could.’
‘What could you do?’ asked Elke, uncertainly.
‘I don’t know, not at this moment. Something might occur to me if we had the opportunity to talk it through.’
‘I suppose we could.’ Elke was still uncertain.
She had to be hurried, before there were any doubts. ‘At your convenience,’ he said, apparently generous.
Elke didn’t know what to say. ‘I … ah … I’m …’
‘How about tomorrow?’ pressed Reimann. ‘We’re trying to move things along, after all.’
‘I suppose tomorrow would be all right.’
‘I’ve only been in Bonn a short while. I don’t know a place to suggest.’
Neither did she, Elke realized. ‘I’m not sure,’ she said.
‘There’s my apartment,’ suggested Reimann, deciding he could just take the chance: if she agreed, so much the better.
‘I don’t think so,’ she refused primly and at once.
‘I could come to you,’ he offered.
She desperately wanted to get everything resolved: to get her car back and be finished with all the inconvenience. ‘All right,’ she agreed. ‘Eight?’ She tried to sound positive, a woman in charge of herself.
‘Eight will be fine,’ Reimann accepted, guessing her effort. He had it! Had her! Now it was important to get off the line, not to permit her to retract.
‘Do you imagine you’ll be able to think of something?’
‘I’m sure I can.’ He smiled down at the replaced telephone. He wouldn’t answer it again, not unless Jutta made a coded call, until after he’d been to Kaufmannstrasse. He couldn’t risk any change of mind, not now. Elke Meyer couldn’t be allowed to escape: wouldn’t escape. It was going well. So very well.
Nikolai Turev was already considering the private meeting with Reimann, before the first of the panics.
The listening devices were permanently installed in Jutta’s flat in Nord-Stadt, embedded undetectably behind plaster in the walls and ceilings – even where the telephone connections were fixed – and all automatically monitored from another Soviet-rented and permanently manned flat across the sparsely grassed rectangle separating the four blocks of the complex.
Every activity was initially recorded, including the minimal love-making. Turev listened to it all, not from any deviant reason but to satisfy himself another way, to ensure no personal problems ever arose between the couple. From the master-tapes he had the KGB Technical Division refine a second recording, removing the sexual interruptions and the extraneous evidence of Jutta in the place by herself: the facile music, the tuneless humming, the television soundtrack, the self-conversation. (What a mind! How can someone with a philosophy as weak as that be described as an expert! Of course America’s colonialist! Always has been. Too much relaxation: that’s how the satellites broke away. Weakness.)
To listen to their actual, unwitting, exchanges.
Turev was not overly concerned, not yet. Just alert. Jutta’s attitude continued to show resentment. And despite warnings, here in Moscow before he’d been dispatched, Reimann appeared almost to want Jutta openly to acknowledge the secondary, more menial role she now had to fulfil.
Had she already unknowingly revealed her awareness of it, to the inherent jeopardy of the operation? The accounts and reports she had so assuredly presented during their two personal meetings in Vienna since everything had been set into motion were just fractionally at variance with what he heard on the recordings. Those recordings showed she was trying too hard to remain the person in charge, the one who imposed the procedures and conditions.
Reimann had to avoid creating an atmosphere of antagonism.
Turev was trying to decide upon a recall, calculating the wisdom of involving Sorokin in the decision, when the first bombshell exploded, although it came in the muted sound of the telephone.
‘It looks genuine!’ insisted Cherny, anxious to believe because what lay before them could confirm a conviction he refused to abandon – that NATO would always remain a militarily aggressive organization. In his excitement the soldier was hunched at Sorokin’s shoulder, gazing down at the document lying on the Deputy Chairman’s desk, all the usual antipathy forgotten.
‘The Technical Division have analysed the paper,’ Sorokin agreed. ‘It’s definitely of German manufacture and of the type we know, from originals we managed to get hold of in the past, the Bonn government use. And the postmark was from Bonn.’
At that moment Turev flustered into the deputy’s suite, nervous at the summons from the First Chief Directorate headquarters in the Moscow suburb. Ahead of Sorokin, the army chief snatched the papers from the desk, offering them to the fat and breathless man. ‘An official West German report, a discussion document on NATO troop strength!’ he declared.
‘What …?’ groped Turev.
Sorokin tried to restore his position. ‘They arrived, anonymously, by post at our Austrian embassy yesterday. The top and last pages are missing: they will have been removed to avoid any identification of source.’
‘A trap: disinformation,’ Turev assessed at once. ‘Proper intelligence doesn’t arrive like this, in the mail!’
‘There have been walk-ins in the past,’ Sorokin reminded them. ‘This would qualify for the description. But I agree: it’s unthinkable that we could act in any way upon it.’
‘If Reimann could confirm the authenticity, it would be a different matter.’
‘I want more than authenticity,’ Turev rapped. ‘It’s not uncommon for a Western intelligence service to leak a genuine document as a lure.’
‘For what purpose?’ demanded the soldier.
‘The obvious one. To test our reaction: see how we jump. As well as authenticity, I’d want positively to know the source.’
‘While I don’t think we should overreact, we can’t possibly dismiss it, either,’ said Sorokin, trying for the middle path.
‘I want Reimann activated at once.’ Cherny was insistent.
Sorokin regarded the soldier sourly before looking inquiringly at Turev. The other Russian said: ‘There’s a meeting scheduled with Jutta first. The system established to bypass her to Reimann will take longer.’
‘Restrict it to Reimann,’ ordered Sorokin. ‘I don’t want him thinking there’s a separate operation: that’s he’s being excluded from something. But keep it away from the woman: she needn’t know.’
‘You should have devised a quicker method of contact,’ Cherny complained.
Sorokin didn’t like the soldier’s constant impatience.
Chapter Fourteen
Reimann was late, by a carefully calculated thirty-five minutes. He stood in the concealing shadows of Kaufmannstrasse, hopefully watching Elke’s lighted window, intent for any curtain flicker or better still the outright look into the street to tell him he had tilted her equilibrium by not arriving at their agreed time. He saw nothing but still hoped she had been unbalanced. If he was completely to succeed – as there could be no doubt that he would – the exhaustively trained Reimann considered it important always to nudge Elke from the centre of every comforting pathway she tried to find. So even minimal lateness would upset her.
Reimann carried nothing with him – not flowers or chocolates-when he finally entered the apartment house, because the gesture would have been wrong. This was not a social visit. It was the arrival of someone trying to help after an unfortunate encounter: as much as anything, a business meeting. The trivial although meaningful love gifts – meaningful to her – could come later.
Elke opened the door to admit him as if she were unsure who it would be: the yapping Poppi was scratching and pawing at some other door closed against it. He decided the dog was going to be a constant irritation: he didn’t like dogs of any sort, not at the best of times and certainly not this one.
‘You found it, then?’ she said, inviting the apology.
‘Easily,’ said Reimann, not offering one.
The interior of the apartment was everything he had expected from the information he had about the woman: only surgical gowns would have been necessary for it to be used as a sterilized operating theatre. She had still to be jostled off centre, for a while. ‘I’m not intruding? Your husband won’t mind my being here?’
‘There isn’t a husband,’ said Elke, softly. More strongly she went on: ‘And in the circumstances it’s hardly an intrusion, is it? I want to get things settled if I can.’
Reimann nodded. She’d avoided looking at him in admitting to being unmarried. ‘Of course,’ he said. He looked around the flat, seeming to study it. ‘Nice,’ he said. ‘Very nice.’
Elke gestured him towards a seat, vaguely aware of a masculine cologne. She said: ‘I was lucky to get it, on a long lease. Did you find it a problem?’ It was so easy to make comparisons with the long-ago Dietlef Becker.
‘An apartment?’ queried Reimann. Before she had time to confirm her question he said: ‘I guess I was lucky, too. An old place, on Rochusplatz. The pipes make a noise. But it suits me.’
‘Bonn’s not easy sometimes.’ It was not the most riveting of social conversation but she felt easy with it. So did he, she noticed. He lounged, rather than sat, appearing quite relaxed. It was, she realized upon reflection, the chair Günther Werle had occupied, perched on the edge as if ready to spring up at any moment.
‘Lucky,’ repeated Reimann. He guessed she’d changed, for his visit. The skirt was uncreased from any daytime wear and the shirt was crisp, the pressed finish obvious. And she did have big tits. The blonde hair was carefully brushed in place, benefiting from the care of a good hairdresser. A little different shade of make-up might have helped, but not appreciably. With detached objectivity Reimann concluded that literally upon face value this appeared a much better assignment than it might have been.
Elke moved to talk about the accident, but stopped before any words came. ‘Can I get you anything? A drink, I mean?’ She felt good, sophisticated, making the gesture.
‘Scotch would be fine,’ Reimann accepted. He’d wondered if there would be the offer. The files didn’t talk about her being a drinker, apart from wine.
‘By itself?’ Ida had prompted her.
‘Ice, if you have it.’
Elke had not thought how to stop Poppi escaping from the kitchen, if she went to get the drinks. The dachshund scuttled by, yapping and snarling, and she twisted back to retrieve him. Before she could, Reimann said: ‘Leave him. Let’s try to make friends.’
Elke watched as the man offered his reversed hand, muttering inaudibly. It took a long time for Poppi to quieten but he did eventually, finally approaching with a cautious tail-wag, sniffing. Reimann didn’t hurry, waiting until there had been several licking movements before putting his fingers behind the dog’s ears. When that was accepted he easily lifted the animal into his lap, still rubbing its ears.
‘Do you have a dog?’ asked Elke, admiringly. Otto Reimann looked more the type of person to have a wolfhound than Günther Werle.
‘It wouldn’t be fair on the animal, with the sort of job I have,’ said Reimann. ‘But I like them, particularly this one. What’s his name?’ He loathed the slimy feeling of its tongue upon his hand, and the wet warmth of its body against his leg.
‘Poppi,’ smiled Elke. She’d known he’d be a nice man, from seeing the gesture towards Poppi in the café just after the accident that Saturday. ‘He’s …’ began Elke, unthinkingly, halting just before saying Poppi was really Ursula’s dog.
‘What?’ asked Reimann.
‘Not a puppy any more,’ she resumed. ‘Five years old.’ Seizing the escape, she said: ‘I’ll get the drinks.’
She didn’t know how much whisky to pour. Guessing at the bottle cap as a measure, she put in two, but it didn’t seem enough so she topped it up from the bottle itself: when she put in two cubes of ice, the liquid came quite high in the glass. She tried the recorked white wine she had opened for Günthcr Werle, grimacing when she tasted it. It was like the wine Kissel had served at Bad Godesberg, claiming it came from Drachenfels. Elke threw it away, opened the other bottle and sipped that. It was much better.
When Elke returned to the living-room, Reimann was standing head bent by the bookshelves, the better to read the titles. The dog was still in his arms. He turned at her entry and said: ‘This is a pretty intimidating selection. You actually like Goethe!’
Elke smiled at the demand: he was an easy person to be with: much easier than Dietlef. Stop it! She said: ‘In all honesty, not a lot. But he’s one of our greatest writers. I felt I should try.’
‘You must be master and win, or serve and lose, grieve or triumph, be the anvil or the hammer,’ quoted Reimann. It could sum up perfectly how he intended the relationship between himself and Elke to develop.
Elke was impressed that he knew Goethe well enough to recite like that. She said: ‘His philosophy always seemed very hard to me. I could never find much that was appropriate to quote.’ Or circumstances in which to quote it, she thought.
Reimann came away from the bookshelf, reaching out for his drink.
‘I hope that’s all right,’ said Elke, the uneasy hostess.
Reimann sat again, still keeping the dog on his lap, before judging the drink. ‘Perfect,’ he announced, knowing she would welcome the praise. Time they got around to his supposed reason for being here. ‘Tell me about the problems with the accident.’
As she spoke Elke was aware of his attention being solely upon her, just as it had been in the cafe immediately after the episode. She finished by nodding towards the small, closed bureau by the book-shelves and said: ‘I’ve got all the documentation there has been so far, if you want to see it.’
‘They’re just stringing things out,’ he said. ‘Keeping hold of their money as long as possible.’
‘Which the lawyer insists they can do.’ Irrationally she had expected him to say something that would solve everything, not repeat what she had already been told. She felt disappointed.
‘Unless they can apportion guilt?’ queried Reimann, repeating what she had said in recounting her difficulties.
Elke nodded. ‘Which isn’t going to happen, is it? It was all caused by car thieves who haven’t been caught. And aren’t likely to be, not now.’
‘Maybe it could be resolved in some way, even without that,’ suggested Reimann. The whisky was really good: he decided upon another one before he left. Perhaps two. And decided, also, to get the the bloody dog off his lap as soon as possible.
‘How?’ Elke demanded.
‘I didn’t lock my ca
r,’ said Reimann, in apparent admission. ‘And I left the keys in the ignition. That made it easier to steal, didn’t it? I would think it certainly makes me more culpable than you if insurance companies are trying to work out the blame between themselves.’
Elke stared at the man, not immediately able to think of anything to say. ‘I suppose … but …’
‘But why not?’ said Reimann. ‘That’s what I did. Which was careless. I should admit it, shouldn’t I?’
‘You’re very honest,’ said Elke.
Which is exactly what you’re supposed to believe, thought Reimann. ‘That’s my profession; being an honest observer and commentator. And a rule I try to follow personally, as well.’
‘It makes you quite an unusual person,’ said Elke, admiringly. She’d momentarily forgotten his being a journalist.
Reimann lowered the protesting dog to the floor, holding his glass so she could see it was obviously empty. The dog started to paw to be lifted again and Elke said: ‘Poppi, come away, come here … oh, would you like another drink?’
Reimann smiled his acceptance, offering her the glass. This was the first time he’d properly practised any of the intensive instruction in anything other than a training situation, where people knew what he was doing or trying to achieve. This was precisely what all those months had been focused upon his achieving. And Reimann liked it. He liked listening to Elke Meyer’s clumsy words and watching her stiff body movements and knowing – guessing, he was sure, to within ninety percent accuracy – what she was thinking and what she would say next. He liked looking so directly at her and doing things and saying things and anticipating how she’d respond, just seconds before she gave that response. It made him feel supremely powerful, already able to do what he wanted with her. Careful, he warned himself. It would be wrong to think that: he was a long way from attaining that degree of power. It would come though. Disgusted he began plucking off hairs that stuck to his clothes from the filthy dog.
In the kitchen Elke settled Poppi in his basket and stood over him briefly, admonishing him to stay there. She was careful to make her visitor’s drink just as she had before, adding the same amount of ice. She hadn’t been wrong, she thought, pleased: by showing such incredible honesty, he had suggested a way of hopefully getting things moving more quickly. Was he married? It was almost inevitable that he would be. A man who … Elke stopped the reflection, irritated at herself. What possible connection could there be between what they were talking about here tonight and the man’s personal, private life? It had been ridiculous to let her mind drift like that.
Little Grey Mice Page 15