‘Maybe, just maybe, we should let “Christopher” get on with it and let him kill all the bastards,’ Bauer said breaking the dense uneasy silence inside the station.
It was then that Peters knew he would have to make the speech of his life. And he never felt as alone as now in this place, not even compared to the nights on covert surveillance Ops in Ulster or playing the part of someone else behind the Wall. Not even in the days, weeks and months after Apollonia Winston. His isolation was compounded by the sight of Stannheim beating a retreat to ‘Anna’s’ where he would, no doubt, try at least to blot out those imagined horrors of what was ahead for the child in the puffed up brown anorak in the film found in the flat at St. Moritzer Platz.
Peters knocked on the table which supported the television and video next to Stannheim’s office to get their attention. He cleared his throat, rocked back slightly and used his left hand to cling onto furniture as if to keep himself steady.
‘What you have just seen will no doubt sicken and appal each and every one of you,’ he began.
‘Supt. Stannheim has informed me that a police psychologist is on call to talk to you either by phone or in person if you feel the need after this. All of you have been emailed a number if you want someone to listen to you.’
He turned to stare at Bauer.
‘I’m actually grateful for Sgt. Bauer’s comment because it leads me to what I must say to you all. In the last flat we burst into back in Wedding there were women and children living that block. They could easily have been the victims of our “Christopher’s” wrath. They could have been casualties if that parcel bomb had been delivered to the wrong address or if the explosive had been too powerful and taken a couple of apartments out let alone the target’s head.’
Target. Target. Target. He was infected by the language of ‘Christopher.’
‘The point I’m trying to make is that the longer this goes on the chances will increase that someone completely innocent will be harmed or injured. Either that someone is going to get caught in the cross-fire of this maniac’s war or else he is going to pick someone by mistake who has no connection to what you have just seen.’
He examined their expressions which were still bearing the mental scars of shock and repulsion.
‘The point is that only WE are the law. We are delegated to protect the public and put the criminals, all criminals, away so they can do no more harm. If we allow those lines to blur then it’s a free for all. And in a free for all the innocent do often get caught up with the guilty.’
He was thinking about Northern Ireland again, about the stories and pictures of young men crippled for life, in some cases beaten with nail studded bats, holes bored into their bones with electric drills, the victims of instant ‘justice’ meted out by men whose own crimes eclipsed the venial sins of those they had branded ‘anti-social elements. Those savage memories steeled him to go on. He could hear his own voice rising, getting stronger and more confident.
‘Colleagues, we must catch this man before this happens. Because it will happen, be sure of that. And remember that when you are going about your work. Bear in mind that your duty is to the law and to the constitution. We cannot be driven by the hysteria of the tabloid media. We are the law.’
He felt utterly exhausted now, in need equally of air but also the suffocating enclosed warm squalor of the pub next door. Peters was so overwhelmed by tiredness that he didn’t ever hear his mobile phone ringing on his desk on the other side of the office.
Angi picked up the handy and answered for him before passing it over to Peters. As he nodded, to her and the detectives returned to their desks Peters overheard Riedel whispering to Bauer.
‘Who does he think he is?’
Peters ignored the back-bite and spoke into his hand set. It was Lothar Blucher sounding smug and all knowing.
‘Your latest stiff my English friend....
‘What do you want Lothar,’ Peters asked wearily.
‘Your latest stiff over in St. Moritzer Platz was Markus Frankel. I know that because he was a client of our Russian friends.’
‘What? You don’t mean the ones involved in a shoot-out over in Magdeburg?’
Blucher grunted a laugh down the line, a put down for Peters.
‘Don’t be ridiculous! Why would someone so big as Yanaev want anything to do with a creature like Frankel? No, our pal had a few contacts with the purveyors of very dodgy movies shot back in the motherland.’
‘I’d like to meet those purveyors Lothar. Seriously I really would. Just a pity Frankel isn’t around to help us track them down.’
‘I’d like to help you there but I don’t like crossing our Russian comrades, even ones who satisfy the desires of men like Frankel.’
You had to be there to see it; Peters thought but resisted to say out loud.
He instantly saw the terrified child on the partially damaged tape that had been wrapped so tightly around Frankel’s windpipe. He also stopped himself from saying that he hoped Frankel’s dispatch from the world had been slow and excruciating.
‘Listen to me Lothar. I know Yanaev spooks you but I insist you get names of those behind that film. Otherwise we will have to think about whether or not we keep paying your bar bills at the Marriot.’
There was a pause down the line, the rattle of a throat being cleared, the distinctive snort from the man who resented no gain from helping his fellow man.
‘Ok Captain Peters. You win this time but if I get names I want some serious cash this time. Enough ‘Geld’ to get out of Berlin and go somewhere safe and sunny for quite some time.’
‘You make sure you do Lothar,’ Peters countered and then paused before adding, ‘Anything new on Yanaev by the way?’
Blucher ignored the question with one of his own: ‘How was your day trip to Magdeburg? Were you going on a sentimental journey?’
Here was a man with many paymasters, Peters concluded. He almost admired the way his oldest asset hedged his bets.
‘Never mind where I take myself off to, Lothar. You just get me the names of those who are flogging that filth and you can forget about Yanaev at least for now,’ he said as if giving Blucher absolution.
When he snapped his phone shut Peters went over and pinched Angi’s arm gently.
‘Let’s go into the hallway for a little chat,’ he whispered to her.
Out in the corridor with its 24/7 strobe lights, thick carpet and framed photos of top brass gone by; Peters looked gravely at his most trusted officer.
‘Angi, I’ve got to talk to the boss about where I stand in all of this shit. So meantime make bloody sure that forensics puts that tape under lock and key. If details of that get out they’ll break down the door and trash this place and stop us from doing our job.’
She nodded and let off a mini salute from her temple with two fingers.
‘Of course sir, I fully understand.’
‘Good because I fucked up. I truly fucked up again. I should never have showed that film to the team.’
He repeated exactly the same words to Stannheim ten minutes later when he sidled into the one of the red lit booths of ‘Annas’, two beers in hand. The boss of Kottbusser Strasse raised his glass and licked the foam that had been delicately sculpted by the pub’s owner on top of the golden coloured liquid below it.
‘You thought it was “Christopher’s” last communiqué,’ Stannheim growled,
‘I suspect you even thought he might make an appearance.’
Peters downed half of the glass before replying, the froth shooting up his nose forcing him to sneeze violently.
‘I’m not sure what I thought,’ Peters replied when he had recovered from his mini convulsion. ‘It’s knocked the stuffing out of the team. You can see it in their faces. There’s no fight left in them.’
The subsequent period of silence seemed to underscore Peters’ conclusion. Stannheim agreed, the squad had been thrown off course by what they had been forced to see.
‘He’
s playing more games with you Martin. He wanted you and your unit to watch that child with those men. He even wants to win you over to his side.’
‘Maybe I should ring up that on-call shrink sir.’ Then he was panic stricken by a new fear.
‘Fuck if any details get out about that tape they’ll be marching in their thousands down the Ku’damm demanding that we leave “Christopher” to get on with it. Bauer already said so...’
‘If it does get out one of us could be lynched,’ Stannheim was in no mood to provide any comfort.
His commanding officer suddenly looked lifeless, his yellow taut skin compounding Peters’ image of Stannheim as an elasticised waxen manikin, someone hollowed out from the inside.
‘Strangely enough I still think we are close to the end. This might have been his spectacular,’ Peters mused.
Stannheim was about to say something in reply when Peters’ wafer thin mobile emitted a bleep. Peters flicked it open and clicked to messages and then his In-box:
‘Meet me @ the Island. A.M. Ur friend Arkady.’
Thirty Seven
Gavrilov had chosen the camouflage of crowds, the foggy throng of tourists marching in phalanxes to and fro over the bridges spanning the Spree, past the Berlin Dom and milling around the steps leading up to the Pergamon museum, for him and Peters to conceal themselves from any prying eyes.
Earlier Peters had taken a serpentine route on the U and S-Bahns, first heading westwards to Spandau, then south through Steglitz and Schoenberg, before leaping into a taxi that left him back in Kreuzberg before finally ending up via the underground all the way to Alexanderplatz and a short hop on the tram towards Hackersher Markt where he popped into one of the bars underneath the railway lines above for a quick beer in order to survey the streets around him.
All the time on the trains there were subtle glances over the shoulder, sideways surveys of fellow passengers to see if any were paying him undue attention, noting without staring at whoever joined his carriage at each stop. Old Cold War tricks for new games. At Alex he bought a key to a baggage locker, placed the mobile inside with the battery taken out and hoped that Arkady Gavrilov would be able spot him emerging from the hordes of visitors around the Museum Island, a tourist guide book he had just bought from the station in his hand, feigning the bewilderment of an out-of-towner lost in Berlin.
On his fourth circuit around the culture trail Peters felt a hand grip his arm and when he turned on his heels he saw Arkady Gavrilov dressed as if he had just stepped out of a spy thriller. Peters wondered if the former GRU man was wearing the hat and flaps down as an in-house joke. Even the weather played its part as insipid shards of melting sleet dropped onto the shoulders of Gavrilov’s three quarter length grey woollen coat.
Peters noticed a rolled up piece of paper peeking out of the inside pocket of the sports jacket Gavrilov wore under his overcoat.
‘You looked lost Tavarich. Allow me to guide you on your way, ‘ the Russian said who then used his eyes to gesture towards the Television Tower one quarter of which was submerged by the low lying steel grey sky.
They said nothing as they crossed the wide lanes of Karl Liebneckt Strasse avoiding the tourist coaches and the darting lines of traffic shooting off in either direction. The two men maintained their silence right up until they were in the lift taking them to the viewing area of the show-piece construct that old Eric and his chums had built in 1969.
When they had reached the 11th floor Peters was first to speak.
‘Which side do you want to look out on – east or west? Which one’s best?’
The Russian pointed westwards and replied: ‘There was only ever one-way Martin and that was over there. How many used to come up here to dream about what it was like on the other side.’
Peters could see the three pointed star atop the Europa Centre peaking still through the gloom.
‘Did you ever think you would end up working in that place, Arkady?’ Peters said pointing towards the west end and the Russian’s office.
‘No, I just dreamed about it. Often.’
Gavrilov took out the paper from his inside pocket and flicked it flat along a line of railing parallel to the glass front of the TV tower.
It was a photo-copy of an English language magazine, the words in capital ‘GDR Review’ tucked away on the top left hand corner and below a headline.
‘GDR honours hero who trained Angolan comrades.’
Beneath there was a picture of an elderly African man in a business suit pinning a medal onto the chest of a proud youngish looking man in a peaked officer’s camp at a military ceremony, two girls in Young Pioneer uniforms flanking him, with bunches of roses in their hands.
Before he could read the picture caption below Gavrilov interrupted.
‘Hans-Joachim Streich,’ the Russian said prodding the extract with his forefinger.
‘You are looking at one of the heroes of the “National People’s Army”.’
Peters could feel his heart pounding through his chest, his pulse beating a little faster, sweat beads starting to form on his forehead. He found himself whispering to Gavrilov even though there were only a handful of visitors around them all pretending not to be disappointed that their view of the city’s western skyline was obscured.
‘What are you trying to tell me Arkady?’
‘I’m telling you that he is your man.’
He stared down at the grainy image of a man in his mid to late twenties, just under six foot, short cropped dark hair, a handsome chiselled face and a confident bearing. The pips on his shoulders indicated that he held the rank of Captain back in July 1982 when the photograph was taken. Peters guessed he must now be hitting fifty, about the same age as the Russian beside him.
‘“GDR Review” was the foreign propaganda magazine for the old regime,’ Gavrilov continued, ‘and men like Hans-Joachim Streich were its posters boys.’
‘Are you absolutely sure this might be him?’ at first Peters didn’t want to get carried away.
Gavrilov’s confidence unnerved him: ‘I’ve checked the name with some old friends back in the Motherland Martin. Some of the Spetznaz boys remember him from joint training exercises in the eighties. He was a big name among the Special Forces’ guys stationed here. Highly decorated for training the MPLA in Angola. Awarded a string of medals for action in Afghanistan. One of the youngest officers to be promoted to the rank of Major before he was 30. Volunteered to go back to Africa to fight UNITA and the South Africans in ‘88. Was involved in joint training with the Red Army in the Motherland a year later when it started to fall apart. Missed the 40th anniversary parade in October ‘89, which is probably just as well as he was about to be promoted to the rank of Colonel and had written a paper for the military arguing for a Tiananmen-style response to the “counter revolutionaries” on the streets. This guy was a true believer right up to the end.’
‘And what happened next?’ Peters asked.
‘Then it’s a blank,’ Gavrilov shrugged his shoulders.
‘He disappears from everyone’s radar. It’s as if he simply packed up the tent and went away into the sunset with the rest of them. Which is odd.’
‘Odd?’ Peters was visibly puzzled.
‘Odd, because, my British comrade, there was every chance he could have been absorbed into the new united Federal army and gone on to greater things.’
‘Maybe he set up a private detective agency like you did Arkady.’
‘If he did I would have known about it and I would have bought him out and then re-hired him,’ the Russian said only half-joking.
The English detective hoped, in vain, that Gavrilov might still be wrong, that his researchers had excavated someone else from the archives, not ‘Christopher’ but rather some other Special Forces soldier. Peters took out his wallet which bulged with fat rolls of Euros.
‘What do we owe you for this Arkady?’
The Russian stuck one of his hands up: ‘Zilch! Again, just promise me that when you ge
t fed up with all the back biting down in Kottbusser Strasse you’ll come and work for me.’
‘Don’t tempt me Arkady, don’t tempt me,’ Peters said smiling at the Russian, imagining a life beyond the squad, the politics, the pressures, Stannheim’s depression, the often absurd orders from high command.
Gavrilov was about to turn on his heels when he stopped, remembering something else he wanted to say.
‘Martin, who do you think is trying to track you? Why all the stealth and cover today?’
‘German Int. Don’t know why but I don’t like the smell around it at all.’
‘Are they still as useless as they were back in the old days?’ Gavrilov asked.
‘I only wish they were. There’s one of them who’s been on my back for a while. He even threatened to get me taken off the case.’
‘Whatever for?’
‘National security. A need to know business. All the usual bollocks. Once ‘Christopher’ started using Semtex it became a “Federal” matter.’
‘Semtex? He used Semtex?’ Gavrilov seemed taken back.
‘On the booby traps Arkady. Seems the spooks think he’s a terrorist which is exactly what our “Christopher” wants them to think.’
Peters sensed that the mention of ‘Semtex’ had shaken Gavrilov slightly.
‘So who flogs Semtex in Berlin these days, Arkady?’ he went on.
Gavrilov rolled his eyes to the sky as if in protest against the very question.
The Swinging Detective Page 24