Little Grey Mice

by Brian Freemantle

  ‘I’ve put Poppi in the kitchen,’ she announced needlessly, handing Reimann the refilled glass.

  ‘He’s cute,’ smiled Reimann. Deciding it was tilt time again, he added: ‘He must be good company for you?’ He knew he’d succeeded when he saw the flush come to her face.

  Elke hoped he hadn’t seen her colour. Hurriedly she said: ‘He is; very much so.’

  ‘Do you work?’ asked Reimann, experimenting further. ‘I mean it might be difficult if you’ve got a full-time job, with a dog to look after.’

  ‘For the government,’ said Elke, intentionally vague. ‘He’s very well house-trained.’

  So are you, thought Reimann, noting how she’d avoided any indication of what she did. Pressing to see if she would volunteer more, he invoked the cliche and said: ‘The government! That must be interesting!’

  ‘Not really,’ refused Elke. ‘It’s all dull bureaucracy.’ She was sure she had no reason for caution, with someone who had shown so much integrity, but he was a journalist. And the stock replies were practically automatic anyway.

  It’s anything but dull bureaucracy, my love, he thought: perhaps it was not going to be quite as easy as he’d earlier imagined. Too soon to have doubts, just as it had been too soon to reflect about the power of anticipation over her. It was obvious she would show reticence with someone she knew as slightly as she knew him at the moment, and important that she did not consider him too curious. ‘I suppose I’d better look at that correspondence you talked about.’

  Elke hurried to the bureau and produced the file. It was a compartmented dossier, with an alphabetical index inside the top cover. Everything was listed against its numbered slot in her neatly legible, well formed handwriting. Little containers for a little mind, Reimann thought.

  Reimann read the letters thoroughly, particularly those from Elke’s insurance company, making a note of reference numbers on the correspondence and, most important, the name of the inspector who was handling Elke’s claim.

  ‘Do you really think you can do something?’ asked the still unconvinced Elke when he handed back the dossier.

  ‘We’ll have to see, won’t we?’ Reimann let his eyes move, as if quickly appraising her body, and the pinpoints of colour came to her cheeks again. Should he manipulate another whisky?

  ‘What will it involve? For you, I mean?’

  ‘Telling the insurance companies I didn’t secure the car, obviously. Maybe making a fresh statement to the police.’ He wouldn’t bother about another drink: he shouldn’t do anything at this stage to deter her, and she might be deterred at the thought of his drinking heavily.

  ‘Will you get into trouble?’ she asked.

  It was such a little-girl question that Reimann openly laughed, although gently, not to offend her. ‘People will probably be upset,’ he allowed. ‘But then it’s my fault, my problem, isn’t it?’

  ‘You’ve been very good about this,’ she said.

  He had to be the person to decide to go: it would be wrong to make her uncomfortable by remaining too long on this occasion. Reimann snapped shut the notebook in which he had detailed her correspondence. ‘I think I’ve got all I need. If I think of something else perhaps I can give you a call?’

  ‘Of course.’

  Making another small experiment, to see if she would disclose a fraction more about what she did, Reimann said: ‘Shall I telephone here? Or at work? You can take calls at work, can you?

  ‘Here,’ said Elke, quickly. ‘I’m here most…’ Her voice faded at the open admission of her empty private existence. With no choice, she concluded: ‘… most nights.’

  ‘Here, then,’ said Reimann, appearing unaware of the hesitation, which he noted at once.

  ‘I’ll wait to hear,’ said Elke.

  Was she trying to prolong the encounter? It was a quick impression, but practically for the first time since he’d entered the apartment Reimann was unsure of the woman’s attitude. Beware over-confidence, he told himself. Even if she was, it would be wiser to ignore it at this early point. He thanked Elke for the drinks as he stood and shook her hand (soft skinned, as he’d guessed from the photographs in Moscow), and out in the street he hurried to the concealing shadow of the Kaufmannstrasse from which he’d watched the flat earlier. He did so again, curious for any curtain flicker to show she was looking for him. There was nothing that was obvious.

  He dialled their coded sequence from a street kiosk, warning Jutta when she picked up the phone that he was on his way if she considered it safe. She did. He stopped the taxi two streets short of her apartment block, so that the destination wasn’t obvious and in order to assure himself – absurdly unlikely though it was – that there was no surveillance.

  The drink that Jutta had waiting for him when he entered her apartment was weaker than the inexperienced Elke had made and there was only one piece of ice. They selected the covering music and Reimann sat directly opposite his wife, dictating the instructions she had to pass on, pausing to confirm that she had correctly recorded Elke Meyer’s insurance details.

  ‘Won’t the insurers here become suspicious when the Australian company accept liability?’ queried Jutta.

  ‘Surprised, probably,’ concerned Reimann. ‘And then delighted to be off the hook. From the correspondence it was obvious they were twisting every way they could to avoid payment. They’re not going to launch an inquiry or argue when they’re offered the very escape they want.’

  ‘What was she like?’ demanded Jutta.

  ‘I’ve already told you what she’s like.’

  ‘It must have been different tonight. When she was more relaxed: in charge of herself.’

  ‘She wasn’t relaxed and she was only just in charge of herself

  ‘Were you attracted to her?’

  ‘She’s a dried-up, nervous, totally insecure spinster with no sexual attraction whatsoever,’ Reimann insisted, and Jutta smiled. Maybe it’s easy to manipulate every woman, he thought. Too confident again! Most women, then.

  *

  ‘He sounds too good to be true,’ Ida judged the following day. She hoped her overlooked sister wasn’t expecting too much. Or that, if something did develop, Elke wasn’t hurt again: in her heart of hearts Ida was reconciled to Elke always remaining a spinster.

  Elke hadn’t intended to sound quite so excited. Trying to pull back, she said: ‘He’s a genuinely nice man.’

  ‘I can’t believe you didn’t try to find out if he was married!’

  ‘How could I have done?’ demanded Elke. ‘Why should I have done?’

  ‘What else is there to tell me?’

  ‘Nothing,’ said Elke. Certainly not how she’d ended the evening, after the man had gone. And this time without Chopin’s ‘Chanson de l’Adieu’ to encourage the fantasy.

  The bulging and grossly overweight Nikolai Turev liked luxury and privilege and indulged himself whenever the opportunity presented itself, which was why he chose Vienna for his meeting with Jutta, even before the coincidence of the anonymous West German document being received at the Soviet embassy there. There was no intention of his going anywhere near the Russian legation. He stayed at the Sacher and ate wild boar at the Drei Hussars. His mornings and afternoons were divided between taking chocolate Sachertorte and coffee at the Sacher or chocolate Demeltorte and coffee at Demel’s. It was at Demel’s, in the old part of the city, that he met Jutta, to learn of Reimann’s second, friendship-making encounter with Elke Meyer.

  He nodded through the mist of tobacco smoke when the woman finished, accepting from her the insurance company notes to ensure there would be no mistake in what Australia had to do. ‘So it seems to have gone exactly to plan?’ he said. It had been a wise edict, to cut Jutta out of the inquiries into the anonymous letter: there was little that she could have practically done, and it might easily have created tension between her and Reimann.

  ‘It would seem so,’ Jutta agreed.

  ‘You haven’t told me how Otto feels about her.’ The K
GB Technical Division had succeeded in getting a full transcript of the couple’s conversation after Reimann’s visit to Kaufmannstrasse, despite the loud music. Turev was intrigued at whatever account Jutta might give.

  ‘He said she was dried up: not attractive at all,’ said Jutta, honestly.

  Turev thought the disinterest was forced. He considered a second Demeltorte. They were delicious and he wanted one, but he was reluctant to ruin his appetite for dinner. ‘Do you think Otto has settled in and adjusted now?’

  ‘It seems so. He hasn’t spoken much about the journalistic cover.’

  ‘Then ask him! It’s important that it remains absolute: that there’s no professional curiosity or doubt from other reporters or commentators.’ This reminded Turev, and he handed the woman the latest story outline and instructions for Reimann’s next dispatch. The package was larger than at any previous meeting because it contained one of the Australian magazines with the first article purportedly written by Reimann.

  ‘Not too much progress so far,’ said Jutta. She was attempting modesty, but to Turev it implied criticism of her husband.

  ‘But it’s started well.’ Setting the test for the woman, Turev said: ‘Be sure to tell Otto how pleased we are.’ He would have another Demeltorte: dinner was hours away yet.

  On the day Turev returned to Moscow, the second anonymous package of what appeared to be West German government communications arrived at the Soviet embassy in Vienna. Again the front and rear sheets were missing. The papers appeared to be a discussion document on Warsaw Pact troop strengths and commitment, after so much Soviet military withdrawal from the now independent satellite nations.

  ‘Germany always thinks militarily!’ insisted Cherny. ‘They don’t know any other way! This is proof, if ever we needed it. Which we don’t. Isn’t this the very question we’re being asked to resolve?’

  ‘We daren’t put it forward for Presidential Council consideration until we have positive verification,’ said Sorokin. ‘And at this stage, not even then. Everything we’re getting is incomplete. And I don’t mean the missing pages. These are meaningless, without our knowing the context in which they’re being created and discussed.’

  Chapter Fifteen

  Reimann had, in fact, adjusted very comfortably into the journalistic role of a Bonn-based political commentator on European affairs. At least once a day he diligently visited the press building, amused at the irony of its closeness to the Chancellery that was his intended target. He made a point of attending the most important of the announced press conferences and particularly the off-the-record government briefings. He was affable towards the other correspondents to the extent of drinking with them in their chosen bar in Joachimstrasse, even enjoying the political arguments and discussions, but careful not to allow anything like friendship to build with any of them. He found the Moscow-inspired articles comparatively easy to create, provided as he was with such a comprehensive framework to operate from, quickly noting that the detailed guidance always cleverly gave his supposed pieces a right-wing bias, sometimes quite critical of the Soviet Union. He always drafted the articles in note form at the Rochusplatz apartment but wrote them from these notes at his designated desk at the press centre, where he could openly be seen at work. He also used the centre’s communication facilities to file to Australia: the completeness of his cover came with the acknowledgements – and sometimes apparent instructions of what they wanted written in future – coming back to him from Australia through the centre.

  It was from Australia, although to Rochusplatz, that the letter came, in stiffly phrased legal terms, accepting all liability and responsibility for the repairs to the Volkswagen. He telephoned Elke at once.

  ‘I can’t believe it!’ said Elke. ‘Just like that!’

  ‘I’m glad it’s worked out,’ said Reimann. She was obviously excited, which was good, because she wouldn’t be thinking clearly. And grateful to him, which it was right that she should be. And important that she should be, too.

  ‘What do I have to do?’ asked the reliant Elke. Wonderful: it was absolutely wonderful! She’d known he was a nice man, from the very first.

  Reimann smiled at the obvious, professional answers that came to mind. ‘You’ll need the formal letter …’ He hesitated, momentarily unsure how to continue. Dominate from the beginning, he decided. ‘I’ll bring it around tonight.’ He was sure she would not refuse, but against her doing so he added: ‘It’ll enable you to contact your insurance company first thing tomorrow: probably order the repairs to be started, too.’

  Elke did not respond immediately. He appeared to be inviting himself, but why shouldn’t she agree? It would enable her to get things moving: there’d been too much delay. She looked around the immaculate apartment that needed no tidying and said: ‘An hour?’

  ‘I’ll be there in an hour,’ Reimann accepted.

  Elke felt lifted, delighted. Five minutes ago all the problems with the car had seemed tangled and confusing. And now they weren’t. Now it was all over. Solved. An hour, Elke warned herself. She set out the glasses in the kitchen and considered taking the ice from the freezer compartment in readiness but didn’t, not wanting it to melt before his arrival. In her bedroom Elke stood undecided before her wardrobe for several minutes, finally selecting a blue linen dress. She took it out and brushed it but did not put it on, to avoid it creasing. She took off the suit she had been wearing, leaning close to the mirror to examine her make-up. Her eyes were fine. Just lipstick then. And her hair. Elke combed it, studied the result and combed it again, wanting it to be right. She put on more lipstick, blotting it with tissue. Perfume would be too strong: toilet water would be sufficient. She sprayed that lightly. Elke turned back to the dress but did not move at once towards it. Instead, from where she stood, she examined herself in just bra and pants in the full-length wardrobe mirror. Instinctively she pulled in her stomach, just slightly, but just as quickly decided she didn’t need to: she’d lost that weight and hadn’t put it back. Her legs were firm, not bumped with cellulite anywhere. The bra helped, of course, but there was very little sag: better than Ida, she guessed, thinking back to the constant comparison when they’d been younger. She turned slightly sideways, actually feeling her buttocks. No sag there, either. And her face … Why? The demand burst into Elke’s mind and she saw her reflection wince. Why was she posing like this, parading herself? For whom? Or for what? In her embarrassment she crossed her arms, covering her already covered pubes, hiding herself from herself. Thank God no one had seen her: would ever know what she was doing.

  She hurried into the dress, not examining herself at all when it was on, and went back into the kitchen. She broke the ice out into a dish, refilled the tray to make more, and put the prepared cubes into the refrigerator. Poppi, seemingly aware of the preparations, stirred and came curiously out of his basket. Elke smiled down and said: ‘Someone’s coming. A man who’s helped me. Isn’t that nice, Poppi?’

  Reimann timed his arrival to be late again, not bothering this time to watch from the street for an anxious curtain flicker. When Elke admitted him the smoothness in the skirt of the linen dress showed that she had changed for his coming, as she had before: her cologne – he wasn’t sure if it was actually perfume – was obvious. Good, he thought: very good.

  ‘It’s considerate of you to come like this,’ said Elke. Some people were inherently bad time-keepers: it wasn’t important.

  ‘I want to get everything sorted out,’ said Reimann. ‘I feel responsible.’ From the kitchen came the sound of the dog, yapping: thank Christ the door was firmly shut.

  ‘I don’t think you are. Not very much, anyway.’ Concentrating upon the man, after Ida’s chatter of questions, Elke thought how firm-bodied he seemed, like someone who took physical exercise.

  ‘You’re lucky my publishers think I am,’ grinned Reimann.

  She hadn’t noticed, either, the slightly protruding eye-tooth: it wasn’t ugly. She said: ‘It’s whisky, isn’t it?’<
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  ‘Please,’ accepted Reimann. The grin became a smile of amusement Elke was never to know, at her obvious effort at sophistication.

  Predictably Poppi scurried around her leg-blocking attempt to keep him in the kitchen and came up, tongue-lolling, against Reimann’s leg. It was like a rat, he thought: a long-haired rat with stunted legs. He wondered how far across the room it would travel if he kicked it, stetched up on its hind legs as it was: probably to the far wall. When Elke called out for the dog to come back to her in the kitchen Reimann said: ‘Let him stay: it’s good to see him again.’ It smelled, a damp-earth dog smell, when he picked it up. He remained standing with it in his arms, determined on this occasion not to sit with it on his lap to prolong the time he had to hold it.

  In the kitchen Elke made the whisky exactly as she had before: she was much quicker, with the ice ready. The white wine, corked from the previous visit, was sharp when she tried an experimental taste. It would have to do.

  With the dog under one arm, Reimann appeared to reach for the letter inside his jacket when she returned, stopping when she offered the drink. ‘I think we’d better put him back in the kitchen,’ he said. He didn’t hand the animal to her but carried it himself to the door, which hid the action of his skidding it across the floor towards its basket. He did take the letter out as he went back to her, with a hand free now to receive his drink. ‘The admission of liability that will settle everything,’ he announced.

  ‘I’ll never know how to thank you.’