The Berlin Spy Trap

by Geoffrey Davison

  ‘Doctor Lorenzo?’ Stack asked.

  ‘Yes,’ Lorenzo replied. ‘Disappointed?’

  Stack shrugged and looked around the room. It was an improvement on the waiting-room. The furniture was respectable, the cabinets and fittings typical of a doctor’s surgery. Only the floor was bare, like the waiting-room.

  ‘Why do you ask?’ Stack said calmly.

  ‘You’re frowning,’ Lorenzo replied.

  ‘I might have reasons,’ Stack suggested.

  ‘Not might,’ Lorenzo said forcibly. ‘Have.’

  ‘You seem to know a lot,’ Stack growled.

  ‘Suppose you sit down,’ Lorenzo said, and waved his arms impatiently. ‘You make me feel uncomfortable, standing glowering at me.’

  Stack sat down. Lorenzo opened a drawer, produced two glasses and a bottle of Cognac.

  ‘French,’ he boomed.

  He poured out two drinks and gave one to Stack. He raised his glass and drank the cognac. Stack did the same.

  ‘You understand that it is not for many men that I would remain in this stinking hole during siesta time,’ Lorenzo said.

  ‘You must want my help badly,’ Stack said suspiciously.

  ‘I do,’ Lorenzo agreed, ‘but I think you need my help just as badly.’

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘The police,’ Lorenzo said casually. ‘They would like to question you.’

  ‘Your spies have been busy.’

  ‘Haven’t they? But then, you were late arriving.’

  ‘What are the police after?’ Stack asked grimly.

  Lorenzo shrugged. ‘Some incident in the mountains,’ he said.

  ‘I don’t know anything,’ Stack replied.

  ‘Don’t remember anything, you mean,’ Lorenzo suggested.

  ‘You seem to be very well informed,’ Stack said sourly.

  ‘I try to be,’ Lorenzo replied. ‘What I don’t know, I deduce.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘Your lost memory, for instance,’ Lorenzo suggested.

  Stack gave nothing away. If the doctor was only guessing, then Stack wasn’t going to make him as wise as himself.

  ‘My informants paid a call at the Hotel San Miguel this morning,’ Lorenzo added. ‘We are not all simple peasants, Señor Stack. Nor was the young waiter.’ He smiled patiently. ‘The telephonist at the Hotel Excelsior is also one of my informers. Need I say more?’

  Stack grunted noncommittally. ‘Tell me about the police,’ he said.

  ‘In due time,’ Lorenzo replied. ‘Let us see if I can help you, professionally, first.’

  ‘And then?’

  ‘We talk business.’

  The two men eyed each other. Stack wondered what Lorenzo was after. Whom he was working for. How far he could be trusted.

  ‘Go and lie on the settee,’ Lorenzo ordered. ‘I will first examine you physically. Then we can talk about the mind.’

  Stack hesitated.

  ‘Come, Señor Stack,’ Lorenzo boomed authoritatively. ‘I am a doctor and you are suffering from a form of amnesia.’

  Begrudgingly Stack took off his jacket and unbuttoned his shirt. Lorenzo lifted his bulk out of his chair and puffed his way across the room like a huge elephant. He sat on a ridiculous small stool next to Stack and poured his fleshy body over him. But his examination, although slow and ponderous, was also thorough. Finally, he puffed and grunted his way back to his desk and spread himself in, and over, his chair.

  ‘Physically you are all right,’ he said quietly. ‘There are abrasions to your temple and the back of your skull. They will heal in due course.’

  Stack dressed again and sat on the seat facing the doctor.

  ‘You will be suffering from headaches,’ Lorenzo added. ‘They will pass shortly.’

  ‘And the amnesia?’ Stack asked. There was no point in trying to deny it, he thought. Lorenzo knew of his conversation with Max Schafer, and he had to know how bad his condition was.

  Lorenzo put his podgy hands together. ‘You received a blow to the head — when?’

  Stack shrugged. ‘Last night, probably.’

  ‘Probably?’ Lorenzo asked. ‘Where?’

  Stack shook his head.

  ‘You can’t remember, or you don’t want to tell me?’ Lorenzo asked.

  ‘Can’t remember,’ Stack sighed. ‘I awoke this morning in a strange bedroom with a loss of memory.’

  ‘How much of a loss of memory?’

  Stack looked thoughtful. ‘I can remember things up to a couple of weeks, or so, ago. Little things are coming back. I can see faces and remember names, but there is a blank.’

  ‘And after the incident that caused the injury to your head?’

  ‘I must have acted rather vaguely. I made my way to a hotel. The waiter thinks I had too much to drink. I remember nothing until this morning.’

  ‘And after this morning?’

  ‘Everything’s quite clear.’

  ‘Even details?’

  ‘Yes,’ Stack frowned. ‘It is only this blockage, of the past two weeks or so.’

  ‘Does it coincide with any particular event that you know of?’

  Stack didn’t answer, and then looked away. ‘Perhaps,’ he said finally.

  ‘Tell me about it.’

  Stack shook his head. Lorenzo didn’t try again.

  ‘Okay,’ Stack said. ‘Let’s have it, Doctor. You tell me — about amnesia.’

  Lorenzo let his face rest on his chest for a short while, then he lifted it up and looked directly at Stack as if he were about to deliver a lecture.

  ‘Amnesia can be caused by any condition which affects the consciousness,’ he said. ‘For instance, the use of drugs, or intoxication, can produce varying degrees of consciousness. Organic states such as epilepsy, or head injury, can also cause a disturbance. So can emotional stress and psychosis. In your case, you are suffering from both post traumatic amnesia and retrograde amnesia — loss of memory of events after, and before, the incident causing the disorder — caused quite simply by a blow, or a series of blows, to your head.

  ‘Post traumatic amnesia is not uncommon. It is happening all the time. A person is knocked unconscious and during his period of recovery there may be this confusion, although the person may well act in what, to the onlooker, is normal behaviour. This, presumably, has happened to you. You acted and behaved in a normal manner, perhaps a little hazy, but you have done things over the past twelve hours or so which do not now register with you.

  ‘You went to a hotel and remained overnight. That is your period of post traumatic amnesia. There has been a lot of evidence put forward to support the theory that the length of this type of amnesia is related to the extent of brain injury. If we accept that suggestion, and I am inclined so to do, we deduce that your head injuries are not of a serious nature.’

  ‘That’s some consolation,’ Stack said seriously. ‘That explains my loss of memory of events over the past few hours, but what about the other events?’

  ‘Retrograde amnesia is often linked with post traumatic amnesia, but the period of retrograde amnesia is usually very short — a few seconds, minutes, perhaps hours. It is usually only with severe brain injury where retrograde amnesia may be of days, weeks or months.’

  Stack shuffled about in his seat.

  ‘That is not your condition,’ Lorenzo added hastily.

  ‘But I have a loss of memory of the events of the past few weeks,’ Stack growled.

  ‘I do not dispute that,’ Lorenzo replied, ‘so we must look for another cause.’

  ‘Another cause?’

  ‘Amnesia may also be psychogenic. In most cases where retrograde amnesia has exceeded the normal periods of time it has been regarded as largely psychogenic. A state of mind which causes a loss of memory. It can be brought on by great strain or stress, or a deep emotional state.’

  ‘Such as a feeling of guilt?’ Stack asked. He was thinking of Berak.

  ‘It is possible,’ Lorenzo agreed. ‘A guil
t complex can produce a form of self-punishment amnesia. The majority of loss of memory cases that come to the press are a result of some form of stress producing this psychogenic amnesia. It is a type of amnesia that often faces the courts of all countries. Many criminals plead this loss of memory.’ He gave a faint smile. ‘The subject offers itself to a deep study,’ he added.

  ‘So your diagnosis, Doctor,’ Stack said thoughtfully, ‘is that I am suffering from a form of amnesia caused by a blow to my head and an emotional stress.’

  ‘The brain is a wondrous machine,’ Lorenzo replied. ‘It is something we do not fully comprehend. In my opinion it is not wise to generalise too much. We are all individuals with different brains, different minds, different emotions, and different strains. Your temporary loss of memory was caused by the blow to your head. It is most likely coupled with some strain which has found a means of expressing itself. There was a vacuum, it moved in, but the condition will pass.’

  ‘When?’ Stack asked anxiously. ‘How long?’

  ‘It could be minutes, hours, days,’ Lorenzo replied. ‘Treatment could accelerate the process. You could…’

  ‘No, thanks,’ Stack said firmly. He couldn’t allow himself to be subjected to any form of treatment that would make him confide his knowledge. He was working alone.

  ‘In that case,’ Lorenzo said, ‘I suggest rest, no excitement. Return to your familiar surroundings. Your memory will come back. The brain mechanism which activates your memory has dried up for the want of a drop of oil. One day you will start providing some lubricant for it. You will get islands of memories. It will happen all the time. And who can tell? Some small happening — an object, action, or even a remark, might spark it all off. But there is still the emotional cause. That is something you want to try and be honest with yourself about.’

  ‘So, it will come back,’ Stack said quietly.

  ‘It will come back,’ Lorenzo agreed. ‘It would be better if you talked about it. If you allow me to question you, we might make a bit of progress. We might even…’

  ‘No!’ Stack snapped. ‘No.’

  ‘I am a doctor.’

  Stack was not impressed. He shook his head. ‘No,’ he said grimly. ‘It will have to take its own course.’

  ‘So be it,’ the doctor replied.

  The two men sat and looked at each other. The clicking fan at the window gave up its battle with the stale air and stopped, the motor finally beaten by the dust and dirt.

  The hot air seemed to weigh down on the two men. They sat in silence. The fan suddenly started again, the damaging particle of dust having been ground smaller. The stale, foul air moved again.

  The two men relaxed. Stack sat back, deflated. Lorenzo produced a packet of cigarellos from his inside pocket and silently offered one to Stack. Stack shook his head in refusal. He had lost his desire to smoke. Lorenzo lit his own cigarello and blew thick smoke into the room. It made the air fouler, but scented.

  Neither man spoke for some time. Even when Lorenzo filled the two glasses and they drank the cognac, they still remained silent.

  It was Stack who finally made the first move. ‘Why do the police want me?’ he asked quietly.

  Lorenzo shrugged. ‘There is a body of a man in the mountains,’ he said, in an offhand manner. ‘A car ran off the road. You might not be involved, of course. It appears to have been an accident.’

  Body! Car off the road! Stack felt his hand going to the back of his head and stopped himself. ‘Was it near the scene of the air crash?’ he asked.

  ‘It was,’ Lorenzo agreed.

  Again Stack had to control himself from giving a visible sign of his concern. ‘What if I give myself up?’ he asked.

  ‘Very noble.’

  ‘And wise?’

  Again Lorenzo shrugged. ‘That depends upon how much you value your time,’ he said. ‘The police are unsympathetic, and their enquiries are slow. You would be required to remain in Barcelona for perhaps a few weeks.’

  And he couldn’t afford the delay, Stack thought. He knew that, but did the doctor also? ‘So what do you suggest?’ he asked.

  ‘That is for you to decide,’ Lorenzo replied, ‘but certainly you will recover your memory quicker in Berlin than Barcelona. Your friends there will help you. You will find your islands of memories.’

  ‘Why Berlin?’ Stack asked suspiciously.

  ‘That is where you have come from,’ Lorenzo replied calmly.

  Stack grunted. Lorenzo seemed to know a lot about him — a hell of a lot.

  ‘And how do I do that?’ Stack asked. ‘The police will be watching the airport and border controls.’

  Lorenzo gave a satisfied smile. ‘I do not work in this hole without acquiring certain friends,’ he said. ‘There is a boat sailing tonight for Marseilles. Tomorrow night you could be there. From Marseilles you can fly to Berlin.’

  ‘Very neat,’ Stack replied, and thought that it was too neat.

  ‘Yes,’ Lorenzo agreed. ‘It is.’

  Stack breathed heavily. ‘What’s the catch?’

  ‘The catch?’ Lorenzo asked.

  ‘We have never mentioned the price,’ Stack said.

  Lorenzo smiled. ‘No,’ he boomed.

  ‘So?’

  ‘So there is a price. I said I wanted to do business with you. Before your trouble I would have offered you money. Now I offer you your escape as well.’

  ‘What do you want of me?’ Stack asked suspiciously.

  Lorenzo put his hands together as if in prayer. ‘You know your way around Berlin?’ he asked.

  ‘Maybe,’ Stack replied.

  ‘I have a special friend who has need of a companion,’ Lorenzo explained.

  ‘Companion?’

  ‘Someone who knows Berlin and who can act on my friend’s behalf.’

  ‘I have lost my memory, remember?’ Stack growled. ‘Perhaps I have forgotten Berlin also.’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ Lorenzo said patiently.

  Stack frowned. ‘Let’s have it,’ he said. ‘All of it.’

  Lorenzo smiled. Stack didn’t like the smile. It was one of satisfaction.

  ‘I have naturally many contacts,’ Lorenzo said, ‘and interests.’ He dropped his head on to his chest and looked at Stack with upturned eyes. ‘And my special friend wants to get to Berlin to arrange for the escape of, shall we say, a Mister X from East Germany.’

  ‘Escape! Who the hell do you think I am?’

  ‘A man who knows his way around Berlin,’ Lorenzo replied calmly, ‘and who can speak fluent German.’

  ‘Who told you that?’

  ‘I made a few enquiries about you,’ Lorenzo smiled, ‘when I heard you had arrived at the Hotel Excelsior.’

  ‘What the hell do you mean, a few enquiries?’ Stack asked angrily.

  ‘I have friends in many quarters,’ Lorenzo said patiently, ‘including the Press. One of them spoke very highly of you.’

  ‘Who?’ Stack asked.

  ‘Señor Padreso,’ Lorenzo replied calmly. ‘You know him, of course.’

  ‘I know him,’ Stack agreed. Padreso was a respected member of the Spanish Press. He was a nomad of the Press circuit. His caravan appeared wherever there was international news. He was often in Berlin.

  ‘You met him in Berlin on May 9th,’ Lorenzo remarked, ‘when the Federal German Chancellor entertained the Press. Agreed?’

  Stack nodded his head in agreement.

  ‘And he was entertained in your office by your editor in chief.’

  ‘Okay,’ Stack said. ‘You have made your point. I know Padreso.’ And he could check if Padreso had, in fact, given Lorenzo his name, he thought.

  ‘He is a close friend,’ Lorenzo explained, ‘and he is also at this moment in Barcelona.’ He heaved his heavy frame on to the desk and looked directly at Stack. ‘I need someone who knows Berlin well. Someone who has perhaps access to both sides of the Wall. Someone who can be trusted. Señor Padreso assures me that you are that person. That is
all, Señor Stack. That is all. Don’t read anything else into it.’

  The two men looked hard at each other. Perhaps Lorenzo was telling the truth, Stack thought. Padreso was a man to be trusted. Maybe Lorenzo could also be trusted, and maybe he was just a good liar. Stack decided to keep an open mind.

  Lorenzo sat back in his seat. ‘My friend means a lot to me,’ he said. ‘She is from Israel.’

  ‘She!’

  ‘Yes — she.’ Lorenzo put his fat, podgy hands together. ‘I helped her mother many years ago. Now this young lady needs my help.’

  ‘Well, you’ve picked the wrong boy,’ Stack said. ‘I have no contacts, or knowledge, of East Berlin, or East Germany.’

  Lorenzo shuffled himself forward again and ferreted about with the papers on his desk. Finally he found what he wanted. It was an old issue of Time magazine. He flung it across the desk in front of Stack. Stack understood why. Inside was an article written by Stack referring to life in Berlin on both sides of the Wall. He had written it several months earlier on Max Schafer’s urging.

  ‘Okay,’ Stack growled, ‘but I still have no contacts with escape organisations.’

  ‘It is of no consequence,’ Lorenzo replied. ‘We have the contacts. We know of such an organisation.’

  Stack looked up sharply, his interest deeply aroused. ‘You know of an organisation?’ he asked. Berak had used such an organisation, he thought. Stack had even gone to Lieffer about it.

  ‘Wherever there is a demand, and people are prepared to pay,’ Lorenzo replied, ‘there will be a service provided.’

  ‘Tell me about this organisation,’ Stack asked.

  Lorenzo smiled. ‘Interested?’ he asked.

  ‘Perhaps,’ Stack replied.

  ‘I am going to be very honest with you, Señor Stack,’ Lorenzo said. ‘When our Civil War ended, I became part of an organisation that helped people get out of Spain.’ He smiled patronisingly. ‘I kept my contacts. For a long period of time I even helped refugees get to Palestine. I became part of a chain that started in Berlin. I have since turned my interests elsewhere, but I believe I can make contact with this organisation in Berlin, if it still exists, and I am told that it does.’