Reimann shook his head, punch-drunk. ‘You must tell me …’ he tried again, desperately. ‘I can’t…?’
Sorokin ignored him, consumed with rage, terrified for himself. The noise of another helicopter seemed to remind him. He nodded through the wired windows and said: ‘That’s how you’re being taken back to Moscow. You thought you were safe, didn’t you? Thought you could go on fooling us! Laughing at us! Not at any risk, coming here today! You’re going to know just how much at risk you are! You’ll go insane, you know! You’re going to have so much pain you’re going to lose your mind. In the end you’ll beg to be killed. And you will be. I promise you that. But not until you’ve told me every secret and every trick. Everything that you’ve done. Bastard!’
‘I DON’T KNOW WHAT’S GONE WRONG!’ Reimann screamed back at the man.
‘Take him,’ Sorokin ordered the waiting guards.
Jutta stared down at the official communication on flimsy paper, but didn’t see the words. ‘Dead!’ she said, echoing what the prison official had announced, handing it to her in her clerk’s office of the Interior Ministry building in central Moscow.
‘That’s what it says.’ The official’s voice was hard, surly.
‘How … it doesn’t say …’
‘That’s all you’re permitted to know. Just that he’s dead.’ No official document anywhere recorded that Otto Reimann had died in agony, under interrogation, still unable to answer the questions of the frantic Dimitri Sorokin.
‘No!’ wailed Jutta. The only hope to which she had clung, all these weeks, was that somehow Otto would find a way to get her reinstated.
‘You have to sign the receipt,’ the man insisted.
‘What’s going to happen to me?’ said Jutta, echoing the plea she’d made to Sorokin.
‘How do I know?’ said the surly official.
Chapter Forty-Six
Everyone had been extremely kind: sympathetic. ‘Everyone’ didn’t seem the right word. It indicated a lot of people and there weren’t a lot of people. There never had been, even before Otto. Ida and the family, of course: always Ida. In a bizarre, illogical way Elke felt more embarrassed for Ida than she believed Ida was for her. In those first weeks poor Ida and even poorer Horst had gone through agonies trying to find the right phrase, until she’d become sure herself and told them they didn’t have to try any more: that she knew Otto had left her, as Dietlef had left her before. As it always happened. There were still half-begun sentences that trailed away to nothing: blurted mentions of his name, gulped back, as if they were trying to swallow instead of saying it before Ida finally did say it, that she’d always thought there was something odd about him and never really trusted him. Elke was glad she hadn’t talked to them about the wedding, as Reimann had urged. Just as she felt sorry for Ida, she felt pity for Horst, for losing his fiction market. And not just for Horst and his self-assurance and the extra money, although the man would never know what sort of escape he’d had. Elke was resigned to not getting the outstanding five thousand marks repaid, as she was resigned to so much else: resigned to everything.
Who else had been kind? Günther Werle, she supposed. Pleased, too, she knew. It had actually been he who raised it – are you still friendly with the person you met through that accident? – and within a fortnight started talking about a concert when she’d admitted that she wasn’t. Elke supposed she would go with him, eventually. Like she might do other things, eventually. Werle wouldn’t be able to fuck like Otto, but she’d come to like it so she probably would go to bed with him, if he tried hard enough. There wouldn’t ever again be any danger, of course. Although at the moment she was completely celibate Elke was still taking the Pill and intended to go on doing so, although not specifically for sexual protection. Her periods were much easier, because of it. Elke reflected, with a cynicism that was practically permanent these days, that her less painful periods remained one of the minuscule benefits of ever having known Otto Reimann. She found it difficult to think of any others.
Elke turned on the windscreen wipers, fearing at first that it might be snow and glad when it wasn’t. Not much longer, she estimated: only a week or two before hard winter. With German efficiency the autobahns were cleared very promptly, but Elke always allowed herself extra time to get to Marienfels in the winter. She’d have to remember to check her tyres, for roadworthiness in the snow. No she wouldn’t, she corrected herself at once. Otto had had new tyres fitted, after the accident. Had it all happened in such short time, in less than a full year? It seemed difficult to believe.
Because the institution was high in the hills the wind howled through the trees, chilling Elke the moment she got out of the Volkswagen. Futilely clutching her coat around her, she hurried into the former mansion for the greeting ritual from Dr Schiller. Someone else who had been kind? Otto had come quite often to Marienfels, but the principal had never remarked upon his absence in these recent weeks. Yes, decided Elke, positively: someone else who had been kind. Still not enough to qualify for an embracing word like ‘everyone’.
Ursula was huddled not on her chair but on the bed, and in a way that didn’t look comfortable, but Elke made no attempt to get her off or resettle her because Dr Schiller had warned of a fractious mood: it was best she remained undisturbed. The predictable tape played softly; Chopin, Elke identified.
‘Hello, darling. It’s Mummy.’
Ursula didn’t move: didn’t hear.
Elke sat in the chair her daughter normally occupied, sighing at the familiarity of it all. Resigned, she told herself again; completely and utterly resigned. She felt out, touching Ursula’s shoulder. The girl let the hand remain there, not aware of it.
‘It’s all finished,’ declared Elke, setting out on a longer monologue than usual. ‘That man you met: the one who was nice. He’s gone. I hoped he wouldn’t: didn’t want him to. But he has. So we won’t be seeing him again … I won’t be seeing him …’
In its sealed container the tape clicked to a stop and whirred into rewind.
‘…Of course I cried,’ resumed Elke, as if she’d been asked a question. ‘Didn’t want at first to believe he wasn’t coming back, not like it was with your Daddy. But not for too long: because I knew, you see. I’d found out …’
The music began softly playing again.
‘… Even know her name, Sneider. Jutta Sneider. She was poised: attractive. They seemed very much in love. Used to each other. And there was another one. At least I think there was another one. There were postcards, always with the same message … like a love message …’
Ursula moved, irritably, straightening herself slightly. Elke watched, not attempting to help, simply withdrawing her hand.
‘… He was cheating me. That’s what I hated … couldn’t forgive, ever. That he was cheating me. He was sleeping with me and making love to me and telling me that he loved me and all the time he wanted other women. Even when he asked me properly to marry him and I asked him if he would still have to go away he said he would … that’s what I couldn’t forgive … couldn’t accept …’
Ursula shifted again, going back into almost the same position as when Elke had entered the room.
‘… And I could have accepted a lot,’ Elke resumed, a conversation more than ever with herself. ‘I knew what else he was. Suspected at first, before I really found out. He made a mistake, a long time ago. Tried to excuse it but I knew it was a lie because no one answers the telephones identifying the Cabinet Secretariat, which he tried to convince me they did. So he knew that was where I worked, long before I told him …’
Elke briefly looked up at the music complex, wishing for once she could turn it off. She realized she probably could if she studied it, but remembered Dr Schiller’s warning and decided against it.
‘… And there were the conversations: guidance, he called them. All he needed was guidance, to help him write the articles his magazine wanted. There were even complaints, supposedly from Australia. But you know what? He neve
r wrote what I told him. When we were practically living together at Rochusplatz I read all the articles that appeared under his name and there was never once any indication of his writing what I told him, disguised as he promised it would be disguised to make it untraceable to me. Then I found out how he’d tricked poor, innocent Uncle Horst. I’ll never know why. To ingratiate himself, I guess. He was commissioning stories from Uncle Horst, telling him he could write fiction. I read one original, you see. It was dreadful: silly and dreadful and sad. The stories that appeared in the magazines – and I read them all, in the end, at Rochusplatz – were quite different: the one I read in the original had hardly any connection with what eventually appeared … another trick.’
Ursula turned, jerkily, and smiled and Elke smiled back and said: ‘Ursula!’ The child’s face cleared, into blankness.
‘… Yes,’ Elke started, as if answering another question. ‘I really could have forgiven that: gone on telling him things, if it had meant our staying together; if it had meant he would be with me forever. But as I said, it was the other woman. I think I hated him by the time he began asking for documents. I was having his baby then, you see: just like I had you. I was pregnant and he was with the other woman, kissing her and holding her close. I never took any risk, of course: not a personal risk. Poor Gerda Pohl … remember I told you about her … poor Gerda gave away little secrets … I saw how it was investigated and realized how easy it would be for me to do it. I couldn’t have got into trouble, though: not like she did. I made everything up, you see. But in the proper way. Who knows better about the format and the style of the highest classified material than I do? So I invented the first document entirely. Not badly to affect him: I never intended that. Just to make things difficult, because of how he’d hurt me with other women. But he asked more and more about military things so I went on inventing, creating fake documents, saying the opposite to all the real Cabinet discussions about defence and NATO. I wanted him to question it: tell me the truth about himself, so I could have agreed to do what he really wanted …’
Far away in a distant part of the houses a luncheon bell sounded. Elke decided they could wait: there was always a rush at the beginning.
‘… I saw him photographing them, of course. From the very beginning, with the first one I made up. I felt him get out of bed and go into the lounge and I looked through the gap in the door and saw him taking pictures. That was when I really knew, for certain, that Otto was a spy. I almost went in that night; almost went in and said I know what you are and it doesn’t matter and I’ll go on doing whatever you want, just as long as you don’t have other women. And then finally I did. It was the last night, when I’d shown him the made-up paper saying the Cabinet had agreed a secret agreement to maintain missiles. I waited so I didn’t really catch him but I went in and openly asked him who he was, wanting him to be honest at last. I waited for him to say it: just as I was waiting to say I wasn’t shocked and didn’t care and admit how I’d tricked him and how I wanted to correct everything: put it right. But he wouldn’t tell me! He was so used to lying that he wouldn’t tell me! He went on cheating, instead. Talked about us getting married and with what he thought was the last piece of paper he wanted he ran away … like they always run away … He could have got into trouble, of course. Moscow made a lot of concessions, so it’s possible he got into trouble. Deserved it, if he did. He hurt me very badly …’
With a suddenness that surprised her Elke felt herself close to tears and fought against them. She had cried, as she’d admitted to the unlistening Ursula, but not for a long time.
‘… I did love him,’ said Elke. ‘I didn’t want anything, except him. That’s why I would have willingly spied if he’d asked me: I don’t give a damn for all these stupid politicians and their stupid discussions and stances, conceding this to gain that. And I could have done it so easily! No one would ever have suspected me…!’
Elke jerked to a stop at the door opening. An attendant said: ‘Dr Schiller didn’t think Ursula would want to come down into the dining hall today.’
‘I don’t think she does,’ Elke confirmed.
‘I’ll bring something up later,’ the woman promised. ‘Why don’t you let me know when you think she’s ready?’
Elke nodded to the retreating nurse, looking back to her daughter. ‘I know he’s never coming back,’ she went on. ‘I used the Chancellery authority, to check the press office. There’s been a letter from the Australian magazines, saying the accreditation has been withdrawn: that Otto Reimann resigned. I should have told security about the magazines, but that would have led them to me and I don’t want that, do I? And I was very careful, about the apartment at Rochusplatz. He gave me a key in the end. So I collected all my clothes and went through all the drawers, in case there was anything incriminating that could be linked with me. There was a strange list, a lot of questions. It referred to “that woman”, which I suppose was me. He’d asked me quite a lot of them, before I began giving him what he thought were genuine documents. I took the list: destroyed it, because it might have made people curious …’ Elke leaned forward, kissing the unresponsive child. ‘So there’s only us again, darling. Everyone thinks it’s just like it was before: that I’ve been abandoned …’ Elke made a further pause. ‘Which is what’s happened, darling. We’re abandoned again …’
Elke felt the tears about to return and gulped against them. ‘I truly believed he loved me!’ she said, plaintively. ‘I truly believed this time that I was going to be happy, just as he promised we would be …’ Elke smiled sadly across at her daughter. ‘I’ve been a lot of times to the flat where I knew Jutta Sneider lived, but she’s not there any more. I finally checked with the agent. He said she moved away, without warning: that lawyers settled everything for her. So that’s where I suppose he is now. With her. Unless he’s being punished, that is. As I said, he deserves to be punished …’
Elke got up, going to the door, deciding that today the nurse could feed Ursula. She turned back into the room. ‘Next week, my darling,’ she promised. ‘I’ll be here next week, as usual.’
On her way back to Bonn, Elke decided she’d have to start writing a diary again. She might get a dog, too. She missed Poppi. A dog would be a companion: someone to talk to at Kaufmannstrasse.
A Biography of Brian Freemantle
Brian Freemantle (b. 1936) is one of Britain’s most prolific and accomplished authors of spy fiction. His novels have sold more than ten million copies worldwide, and have been optioned for numerous film and television adaptations.
Born in Southampton, on the southern coast of England, Freemantle began his career as a journalist. In 1975, as the foreign editor at the Daily Mail, he made headlines during the American evacuation of Saigon: As the North Vietnamese closed in on the city, Freemantle became worried about the future of the city’s orphans. He lobbied his superiors at the paper to take action, and they agreed to fund an evacuation for the children. In three days, Freemantle organized a thirty-six-hour helicopter airlift for ninety-nine children, who were transported to Britain. In a flash of dramatic inspiration, he changed nearly one hundred lives—and sold a bundle of newspapers.
Although he began writing espionage fiction in the late 1960s, he first won fame in 1977, with Charlie M. That book introduced the world to Charlie Muffin—a disheveled spy with a skill set more bureaucratic than Bond-like. The novel, which drew favorable comparisons to the work of John Le Carré, was a hit, and Freemantle began writing sequels. The sixth in the series, The Blind Run, was nominated for an Edgar Award for Best Novel. To date, Freemantle has penned fourteen titles in the Charlie Muffin series, the most recent of which is Red Star Rising (2010), which brought back the popular spy after a nine-year absence.
In addition to the stories of Charlie Muffin, Freemantle has written more than two dozen standalone novels, many of them under pseudonyms including Jonathan Evans and Andrea Hart. Freemantle’s other series include two books about Sebastian Holmes, an ill
egitimate son of Sherlock Holmes, and the four Cowley and Danilov books, which were written in the years after the end of the Cold War and follow an odd pair of detectives—an FBI operative and the head of Russia’s organized crime bureau.
Freemantle lives and works in London, England.
A school photograph of Brian Freemantle at age twelve.
Brian Freemantle, at age fourteen, with his mother, Violet, at the country estate of a family acquaintance, Major Mears.
Freemantle’s parents, Harold and Violet Freemantle, at the country estate of Major Mears.
Brian Freemantle and his wife, Maureen, on their wedding day. They were married on December 8, 1956, in Southampton, where both were born and spent their childhoods. Although they attended the same schools, they did not meet until after they had both left Southampton.
Brian Freemantle (right) with photographer Bob Lowry in 1959. Freemantle and Lowry opened a branch office of the Bristol Evening World together in Trowbridge, in Wiltshire, England.
A bearded Freemantle with his wife, Maureen, circa 1971. He grew the beard for an undercover newspaper assignment in what was then known as Czechoslovakia.
Freemantle (left) with Lady and Sir David English, the editors of the Daily Mail, on Freemantle’s fiftieth birthday. Freemantle was foreign editor of the Daily Mail, and with the backing of Sir David and the newspaper, he organized the airlift rescue of nearly one hundred Vietnamese orphans from Saigon in 1975.
Freemantle working on a novel before beginning his daily newspaper assignments. His wife, Maureen, looks over his shoulder.
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