The Berlin Spy Trap

by Geoffrey Davison

  The airport terminal building was busy and noisy. Stack passed through the Customs and controls without hindrance. He lost Lehna amongst the sea of faces, and picked up a taxi in the ranks outside the terminal entrance. But he didn’t make for the hotel; he headed into the heart of the city. In Paris he had sent a brief, coded message to Roberts of Military Intelligence, asking for protection. He wanted to establish this tenuous link with his Control. He also wanted to find out if the opposition were also keeping close to him.

  As the taxi glided past the familiar landmarks of modern buildings glistening in the afternoon sun, Stack felt himself becoming more alive and confident, but his mind still held back the spring to release his memory bank. There was still a blank.

  He left the taxi at Kurfürstendamm, at the corner of Uhlandstrasse. It was Sunday afternoon. The traffic was not so busy as midweek and neither were the pavement cafés. He purchased a newspaper and sat at a table in a café that he used regularly. He ordered a coffee and turned his attention to his newspaper.

  The leading articles mainly dealt with the forthcoming visit of the Yugoslav President and the German Chancellor’s attempt to build bridges between the East and West. He frowned as he read the reports. They were familiar to him, yet distant, as if they were just out of his grasp. It was something he knew about, but had forgotten the details.

  He finished his coffee and set out to flush any tails. He paid the waiter and walked away from the café. From a shop window, he caught the reflection of the pedestrians behind him. Their faces registered. He increased his pace and became one of the masses.

  It didn’t take him long to pick out his man. A short walk and trip on the Underground had flushed him. He was of medium height, slim, wearing a light-coloured suit. Not a man who stood out in a crowd, unless you took precautions.

  Stack continued with his antics, the man hung on and established himself as a cover. Stack looked for number two. He didn’t find one. That meant the opposition were either outsmarting him, or hadn’t joined the game yet. At five p.m. he gave up the first round and went to his hotel.

  Lehna was in her room waiting for him. She looked tense and on edge. ‘I was worried,’ she explained. ‘You have been so long.’

  Perhaps they were on to Lehna, he thought, and were by-passing him.

  ‘What do we do?’ Lehna asked anxiously.

  ‘Wait until we are contacted,’ Stack replied. ‘It shouldn’t be too long if Lorenzo has done his part. Why don’t you go and see your friend, Franz Hessler? Find out what contact has been made with Criller.’

  He wanted to be free that evening to see Max. He didn’t want Lehna around, and he wanted to give the organisation an opportunity to make contact.

  ‘Where shall we meet?’ Lehna asked.

  ‘In the cocktail bar,’ Stack replied. ‘Let’s say about ten. We can dine then. That should give you plenty of time to get to Hessler’s apartment and back.’

  She smiled at him faintly. ‘I never did say I was sorry,’ she said apologetically.

  ‘About what?’

  ‘About doubting you in Marseilles,’ she replied, and looked at him with her large eyes.

  ‘That was because of Gallon’s other business,’ Stack said firmly.

  ‘I hope so,’ she sighed.

  ‘Come on, we’ll go and have a drink.’

  They went to the lounge. Stack’s cover was already there. Stack wondered how concerned Control were becoming. Whether they knew about his trouble. He ordered two drinks.

  They sat and talked. Lehna became more at ease and more determined to do something constructive that would help. Stack assured her that visiting Hessler was important, and that they had to know how Criller could be contacted. He got her a taxi and she went on her visit. He felt that she was safe enough on her own. She was only the carrier, just as Lorenzo was the post box. If the organisation didn’t want to help, they would just remain out of sight. It was Stack who interested someone — Henri Gallon had proved that.

  He returned to the hotel and set about locating Max Schafer. He telephoned the office. It was staffed all weekend, but Schafer wasn’t there. He tried some of the bars that Schafer used and found him at one of them. He left word that he was on his way and took a taxi. So did his cover. The man was beginning to irritate him because he wasn’t using any finesse with his job. The opposition would pick him out a mile away.

  Schafer was standing at the bar counter, a glass in his hand and a cigar in his mouth, when Stack arrived. Schafer always stood at the bar counter when he was drinking, Stack thought, and he always had a cigar in his mouth. He was a small, squat man, with a face that looked as if it had been lived with. It was weather-beaten, scraggy and expressive. A description which fitted Maximillian Schafer himself.

  Schafer was an American, of German descent, and his language and personality were a combination of the two worlds. He was a bachelor, steeped in journalism from the days of the Spanish Civil War, when he had first descended on Europe as a young, enthusiastic, photographic correspondent for a New York newspaper. He had never returned to the States. He had spent the war in Europe and afterwards moved into Berlin.

  He was a colourful character, both in his dress and in his personality — a character Stack liked. He was a professional at his job with a nose for news, and connections with roots stretching into every nook and corner of Europe. The two men were close, but their friendship was all on the front. They worked together, but lived separate lives, which gave Stack the freedom he required.

  ‘Hell, it’s good to see you, John,’ Schafer said, shaking Stack’s hand warmly. ‘You had me worried on the telephone. When did you get back?’

  ‘Today,’ Stack replied. ‘I’ve been on to the office.’

  Schafer handed Stack a drink. ‘Carlos has taken over in Barcelona,’ he said. ‘How do you feel?’

  ‘Physically okay,’ Stack said, ‘but there is a bit of a blank.’

  ‘Blank?’

  ‘A couple of weeks or so missing. They’ll come back.’

  ‘Have you seen a doctor?’

  ‘Saw one in Barcelona. You might know him. A man called Lorenzo.’

  ‘Lorenzo?’ Schafer asked, and repeated the name thoughtfully. ‘Lorenzo. Can’t say I do,’ he said.

  Stack was surprised. He put Lorenzo in the same set of international eccentrics that Schafer belonged to.

  ‘He’s a bit of a character,’ Stack said.

  ‘What did he say?’

  Stack took a drink. ‘Nothing to worry about. The fog will clear in time. Something might start the wheels going again.’

  ‘What caused it, John?’

  ‘A blow to the head,’ Stack replied. ‘I must have tripped over something. Can’t remember anything about it.’

  Schafer frowned. ‘Are you in some sort of trouble?’ he asked quietly.

  ‘Trouble?’ Stack asked. ‘No. Why, should I be?’

  Schafer shrugged. ‘You aren’t the type to go falling over yourself.’

  ‘I must have had too much to drink,’ Stack said evasively. ‘What gives?’ he added.

  ‘They’re winding up the conference in East Berlin tomorrow. Press conference at two in the afternoon.’

  ‘Conference?’

  Schafer smiled patiently. ‘We’ve been covering it together for the past two weeks,’ he said. ‘The East Germans have got their Warsaw friends together. All to do with Honecker’s move to get full sovereign recognition. The usual propaganda charade.’

  So he and Max had been covering a conference in East Berlin, Stack thought. That was what he had been doing before flying to Spain. He had been going into East Berlin. To meetings with Gunter? he wondered.

  ‘First team on display?’ he asked.

  Schafer shook his head. ‘Negative,’ he said. ‘It’s their reserves, but still some of their big guns.’

  ‘Why did you send me to Spain, Max?’ Stack asked.

  Schafer pulled at his cigar. ‘We both thought that a change wou
ld do you good,’ he replied. ‘Carlos is short staffed in Madrid. It seemed a good idea at the time.’

  ‘What do you mean, a change would do me good?’

  ‘Ah! Come on, John,’ Schafer drawled. ‘You know what you’ve been like recently, what with Sue and…’

  ‘What’s Sue got to do with it?’ Stack intervened.

  ‘Well, I don’t want to get too personal, John, but I don’t think you have been the same guy since the pair of you separated. Come on, let’s have another drink. I’ve got to see Hendrich soon.’

  Schafer ordered a couple of doubles. Stack stood frowning. He wanted to know more about himself. More about the last few weeks.

  ‘Max,’ he said cautiously, ‘I’ve got a blank, remember, about the last couple of weeks or so. You said you thought a change would do me good. Have I been irritable and awkward?’

  ‘Hell, no,’ Schafer replied. ‘You haven’t gone around like a bear with a sore head either, if that’s what you mean.’

  ‘But what?’

  ‘Well, you’ve been quiet and unsociable, and there was that business with Hendrich Lieffer.’

  ‘What business?’

  ‘You seemed to have a bee in your bonnet about that article you are working on. You were looking for some organisation or something connected with refugees. You thought Lieffer could help you.’

  ‘And he didn’t,’ Stack said, more to himself than Schafer. He vaguely remembered talking to Lieffer. Lieffer was in charge of the refugee office in Berlin. He should have known about the organisation, Stack thought. If anyone, Lieffer should have known.

  ‘No, he didn’t,’ Schafer agreed. ‘I think you thought he was holding back on you.’

  ‘Anything else got you worried?’ Stack asked. ‘Let’s have it, Max. Let’s clear the air.’

  Schafer toyed with his glass for a moment. ‘All right, John, I’ll give it to you straight,’ he said seriously. ‘You came back last December, from Prague, and you came back a different guy. Oh, you do your job okay. I’ve no complaints, but you don’t quite tick the same. You’re more distant. You are not the same guy I used to know.’ He looked apologetic. ‘Sorry, John, if I spoke out of turn.’

  ‘And what have you diagnosed as the cause?’ Stack asked. He knew his own problem. He wanted to know how much of it had got through to Schafer.

  ‘You and Sue parted company last November,’ Schafer replied. ‘I don’t know why the hell you don’t make it up. A man has to be married to something, or somebody. Everybody needs something to turn them on.’

  Married to something or somebody, Stack thought! My God! Stack was married all right, but not to a woman. If only he could release the spring that kept him wound up. If only he was finished with the job. He inwardly sighed. Schafer’s remarks weren’t anything new. He had said them before. He had even said them at Stack’s wedding. A man has to be married to something, or somebody. With Stack it had been Sue — with Schafer it was his job.

  ‘And with you it is the news business,’ Stack said into his glass. ‘Perhaps it is also with me.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ Schafer replied. ‘But I remember how you were with Sue before the split.’ He put his arm affectionately around Stack’s shoulders. ‘Perhaps I am talking out of turn,’ he said, ‘but I see Sue, occasionally, when I go to Ruddi’s studio. She does a good job for Ruddi. He is very pleased with her, but she misses you, John. I can tell.’

  Stack grunted and played with his drink. His feelings for Sue seemed to be on ice, just as his feelings for everything else were in cold storage. He had taken on a job and he had fouled it up. Until he was through with it, the ice wouldn’t melt. He had almost become a recluse, he knew that, but he had thought that it was safer that way.

  ‘Tell me about this job we were covering,’ he said, pointedly changing the subject.

  ‘The East Germans called their Warsaw Pact friends together a couple of weeks ago.’

  ‘Before that we worked on the Common Market issue?’

  ‘You remember that?’

  ‘Yes. It’s the conference that is a blank.’

  ‘We covered it together almost every day. I tried to get a few shots of the big names, but they wouldn’t play ball. Tomorrow is the finish.’

  ‘Any ideas?’

  ‘Some. Honecker wants a big vote of confidence. He has been pushed into further negotiations with the West German Government by the Russians. He wants to show the West that he has the support of his allies.’

  ‘Anything else?’

  Schafer shrugged. ‘Nothing that has come to light,’ he said. ‘Look, John, if you would rather not go, I’ll send someone else.’

  Stack played with his glass. He could duck out of it if he wanted to, he had the excuse, or he could take it on again. He could go back into East Berlin, he thought. Back behind the Wall.

  He grunted and took a long drink. As a foreign correspondent, he would have certain protection, he thought. He would be reasonably safe, but it would mean that the opposition would have their sights well and truly on him, and their finger on the trigger. It would be playing with fire. It could prove dangerous, but if he wanted his memory back he had to go over the old ground. It was his only hope.

  ‘I’ll go,’ he said firmly. He had to go, he thought. He had to take the risk. He had to go where he had been meeting Gunter. He had to try and get up to date.

  ‘I would go myself,’ Schafer explained, ‘but there is a briefing conference in the City Hall for Tito’s visit.’

  ‘It’s being played up big,’ Stack remarked.

  ‘Deluxe treatment,’ Schafer agreed.

  ‘When does he arrive?’

  ‘Bonn next Tuesday and Berlin on the Wednesday. I think I might commission Ruddi to take some shots. What do you think?’

  ‘Sure,’ Stack said reluctantly. ‘Why not?’ He didn’t like Ruddi as a person and Schafer knew it, but Ruddi was a good photographer and they often used him. Schafer and Ruddi were friendly. They were both interested in photography. Stack’s resentment of Ruddi was because of Sue. She worked for Ruddi. Schafer had got her the job.

  ‘There will be plenty of scope,’ Stack added, more readily.

  ‘Yeah,’ Schafer agreed. ‘Going to be an interesting visit. If we get the right shots, they could go over big in the States. They like that sort of stuff.’ He looked at his watch. ‘Say, John, you’ll have to excuse me. I gotta meet Hendrich.’

  ‘That’s okay, Max,’ Stack replied. ‘By the way, would you ask Hendrich if I may call and see him tomorrow morning?’

  ‘Sure,’ Schafer replied, ‘but what’s on? Are you chasing up that old line of yours?’

  ‘No,’ Stack lied. ‘I just want to go over some old ground to see if I can get those last few weeks back.’

  ‘Yeah, a good idea,’ Schafer said. He slapped Stack affectionately on the shoulder. ‘See you tomorrow,’ he said, and left the bar.

  Stack stayed for one further drink to take in the faces. It was about time the opposition, or the organisation, were taking part in the game, he thought, and he wanted to flush them out before they made their move. He liked to know what was happening.

  When he left the bar he followed a standard evasive pattern of movement, designed to throw up any tail. By the time he reached the vicinity of his hotel he had two suspects. One he took to be his cover, the other still had a question mark about him. He needed more time to pin him down, but he didn’t get it. A large black Mercedes limousine suddenly pulled up alongside him, and two heavily built men confronted him. They were dressed in similar garb and both had a dead-pan expression on their faces that marked them as police. Stack tried to sidestep them, but they blocked his way.

  ‘Herr Stack?’ one asked.

  ‘Who are you?’ Stack replied.

  ‘Police,’ one said, and some form of identification flashed in front of Stack and then disappeared inside the man’s jacket. ‘Come with us, please.’

  ‘Where to?’ Stack asked angrily.

  �
�Police Headquarters.’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘Lieutenant Keller would like to ask you a few questions,’ the man said patiently.

  Lieutenant Keller! Stack knew the name. Keller was in the Special Branch of the Kriminalpolitzei.

  ‘Let me see your identification again,’ Stack demanded. He was playing for time. He wanted his cover to see what was happening.

  The man produced his identification again. ‘Satisfied?’ he asked grimly.

  A hand touched Stack’s arm, and he felt himself being crowded into the police car. Stack couldn’t see his cover and silently cursed the man. He didn’t question the two policemen. They wouldn’t know what it was all about.

  CHAPTER 9

  At the Police Headquarters, Stack was taken to a first-floor waiting room outside an office where the name Lt Otto Keller was printed on the door. One of Keller’s men remained with him. Stack hoped like hell that his cover was using the hot line. The last thing he wanted at this stage was to get entangled with the Kriminalpolitzei. The minutes slowly passed by. The delay gave Stack hope. Finally, he was called into Keller’s office.

  Keller sat, shirt-sleeved, at a desk. His hair was cut short in traditional Prussian style. He was broadly built with a stern, tanned face. He looked typical of the modern, successful German — efficient, prosperous, confident. He offered Stack a seat. His attitude gave Stack hope. He sat facing Keller.

  ‘I am Lieutenant Keller,’ Keller said formally, and sat back. ‘You are John Stack?’

  ‘I am,’ Stack replied. ‘And I am a British citizen,’ he added. ‘Employed by the European Press Agency.’

  ‘So I understand,’ Keller said. He looked at Stack. ‘It would appear that you have attracted the attention of the Spanish and French police,’ he added quietly.