The Berlin Spy Trap

by Geoffrey Davison

  Stack breathed heavily, his eyes still closed. He could see Gunter’s face quite clearly. How did Gunter make his pass, he wondered? He got no answer. How did Gunter make his pass, he asked himself again? Again he got no answer. It was still a blank.

  He mentally sighed. What else do you remember, he asked himself hurriedly? There was Gunter’s anxious face, he thought. He remembered that. Gunter had to get to Boucher before meeting Stack in Spain. Spain! Yes, Stack remembered. They were to meet in Spain. Think of Spain, he told himself. He could see the mountains and the aeroplane wreckage. That would be Gunter’s plane, he thought. What had Stack been looking for? And who was the figure in the dark suit?

  There had been a fight. Yes, he remembered, a fight with a man, and he remembered Doctor Lorenzo. Go back to the wreckage, he said to himself. What had happened there? What had happened?… But it wouldn’t come. It wouldn’t come.

  He had told them all that he had known. About Berak, about Gunter, and about his contact with Control. They knew as much as he did now, he thought. They knew that he didn’t know what great secret Gunter had been going to unfold for him!

  He had failed. He had wasted all that time and energy. He had even sacrificed their contact in the East German Foreign Office. He had failed. The side effects would be marginal in the spy game, he thought. The losses would be quite small, other than the prize of finding out what Boucher had got on to. That loss would hurt, he thought, when the effects of the drugs wore off. That was what his work in Berlin had been about. That was why Berak was dead. The numbness and guilt would return. He wasn’t going to be free of them, yet.

  He mentally groaned. There was still Schmidt and the organisation, he thought. He might still be able to salvage some self-respect out of his failure, if he could get to them. He had to think of escape. He had to get out of Preiser’s clutches. He lay quite still, and tried to pick up any sound that would indicate whether or not he was being observed. He knew he was lying on a mattress, but there was no hospital smell about the room. The atmosphere had a foisty smell.

  He heard no sound at all. Very slowly, he opened his eyes, moving the lids, fractionally, to disclose a blurred, yellow light. He wasn’t in a hospital, he thought. They had taken him elsewhere. He opened his eyes fully, and they focused on a bare, electric light bulb hanging on a short length of flex above his head.

  He moved his head to one side and saw bare floor boards, dirty walls and a panelled door. He became fully alert. He had been taken to a room where he was being kept a prisoner, he thought.

  He struggled to an upright position. The room was about four metres square. He was on an iron-framed, hospital-type bed. He looked about him. The ceiling had once been ornate and decorated. It was now dirty and falling apart. So was the wall plaster. A window opening was covered with dark brown woodwork that matched the door.

  Where was he, he wondered? Where had they taken him?

  He let his feet fall over the edge of the bed. They were like lead weights attached to the lower part of his body. He remained seated on the bed. His body felt weak and tired, but his brain was alert and active. They had got all they wanted out of him, he thought. They knew all that he knew. Now they were finished with him. But surely they wouldn’t keep him prisoner. They would have to release him when the questions were asked — or would they?

  He stood upright. His head swam and his legs sagged. He sat down again. A noise outside the door sharply attracted his attention. It was as if his senses were magnified. The door handle turned. He watched it, his pulse quickening. The door opened. He held his breath. A figure appeared. It was Preiser! He came into the room. The two men looked at each other.

  ‘How do you feel?’ Preiser asked. There was no visible sign of satisfaction on his face. It was expressionless.

  ‘Lousy,’ Stack replied grimly.

  ‘It will pass very soon,’ Preiser said. ‘You will soon feel well enough to leave.’

  ‘Leave? Where are you taking me?’

  Preiser shrugged. ‘Nowhere,’ he said.

  Stack didn’t understand the situation.

  ‘You will be free to leave,’ Preiser explained.

  ‘Where am I?’ Stack asked suspiciously.

  ‘East Berlin,’ Preiser said.

  Stack’s hand went to his pockets. He knew there was a catch. He wasn’t mistaken. His passport was missing!

  ‘My passport,’ he said.

  Preiser looked concerned. ‘Oh,’ he said. ‘It must have dropped out of your pocket when you took ill.’

  ‘When I took ill?’ Stack growled.

  ‘In the Ice Stadium,’ Preiser explained calmly.

  Stack glowered at him. If he had felt better, he would have taken his resentment out on the man, physically.

  ‘If you report the loss,’ Preiser went on, ‘we will do all we can to help you recover it.’

  Again Stack glowered. ‘How am I supposed to return to West Berlin?’ he asked.

  Preiser looked thoughtful. ‘I should give the authorities in West Berlin a telephone call from an hotel,’ he said. ‘Or phone your office.’ He smiled. ‘It is really a minor problem.’

  ‘Minor compared with what the Party is planning?’ Stack asked.

  ‘Precisely,’ Preiser replied.

  ‘Just what are you planning?’ Stack asked.

  Preiser smiled, as if to say that he wasn’t going to be drawn. He put his hand in his pocket and withdrew a silver cigarette case. Stack’s eyes watched him closely. The cigarette case! It was not unlike his own, he thought. He watched Preiser flick it open.

  Something inside Stack’s brain clicked into place. The wheels started to move.

  ‘Cigarette, Herr Stack?’ Preiser asked.

  Cigarette! Gunter! Stack’s brain began to shriek at him. Today is Monday, so take the second cigarette from the left! Automatically his hand went out. He watched his fingers pick out the second cigarette from the hinged end of the case.

  Preiser stood smiling. My God! Stack thought. The cigarette case under his pillow in the hotel bedroom. That was it! That was what he had collected from the air crash. Gunter’s cigarettes!

  His brain seemed to accelerate into action. It flashed him a picture of the scene of the air crash. Bodies and wreckage were strewn over the mountainside. He could see himself with a group of uniformed Spanish police searching the bodies. They had found Gunter — his head had been sliced from his body, but Stack had found his cigarette case. The police had wanted the case — Stack had handed it over, but had kept the cigarettes and put them in his own case!

  And he still had them, he thought. He still had them! He had never smoked them! He put Preiser’s cigarette to his lips. He smoked little, but it had been Gunter’s way of passing on the information. He could see it all clearly. Gunter would place the microfilm of his coded message inside a cigarette. At the press meetings, he would offer Stack a cigarette, and Stack would know which one to take.

  Stack felt like laughing out aloud. Preiser’s psychotropic drugs had stimulated Stack’s brain, and Preiser’s action had unconsciously triggered off the mechanism of Stack’s lost memory. They had unwittingly told him what he had wanted to know. They had given him back his past!

  Again he had to stop himself from giving anything away. He let the smoke trickle into his mouth and he blew it out. If Gunter had made his preparation for the switch in Spain, he thought, the information would have been written on one of the cigarettes still in Stack’s cigarette case! He felt the excitement mounting. The cigarette case in his hotel bedroom in West Berlin!

  ‘Are you all right?’ Preiser asked.

  Stack looked up at him. ‘The cigarette has gone to my head,’ he said, and hurriedly warned himself against saying anything foolhardy. Now that he knew where to find the information, he had to make sure nothing went wrong. ‘How much did I tell you?’ he asked. He found the cigarette distasteful and put it out.

  This time Preiser was more communicative. ‘Unfortunately — or fortunate
ly — you do not know very much,’ he said.

  ‘So why don’t you just let me return to West Berlin?’ Stack asked.

  ‘But we will,’ Preiser replied airily. He threw his cigarette to the floor and stamped it out. ‘As soon as you feel fit enough to travel, you may leave.’ He backed away from the door. ‘Auf wiedersehen, Herr Stack,’ he said formally, and left Stack alone in the room.

  Stack looked at the door and frowned. They weren’t just going to let him go, he thought. There was a catch somewhere.

  He struggled to his feet. He felt fractionally better, but not fit enough to walk out of the room. He sat down again and waited. Preiser had said Stack’s tiredness would pass. He slapped his knees impatiently. He had to get back to West Berlin, he thought. He had to!

  He could feel himself becoming agitated, and forced himself to sit calmly on the bed. After a short while he was able to make his move. He walked to the door and hesitated. A hail of lead could greet him. He swallowed hard and decided to take precautions. He flattened himself against the wall, and with an outstretched hand turned the door handle. It responded to his action and he pulled the door open.

  The door creaked on its hinges and swung open, but there was no hail of lead. Only a feeling of inky blackness. He breathed heavily and moved into the opening, but Preiser wasn’t going to let him walk out, he thought. It wasn’t going to be as easy as that.

  He moved cautiously on to the landing. It was in darkness. From the light of the room that he had left, he could see that the building was an empty terraced dwelling house. He stood on top of the staircase, the perspiration rolling down his back. Any second he expected a bullet from a revolver to blast him into eternity.

  He stepped gingerly on to the first tread; it creaked under his weight. The handrail and balustrade moved as he put his weight on them. He slowly descended the staircase, his eyes frantically searching the darkness for any sign of movement, and his ears strained for any tell-tale noise.

  A tread collapsed under his weight, and he went crashing forward. The delicately fixed balustrade stopped his fall. He lay on a half landing cursing himself, and anxiously listening for any reactions. There were none. He continued his way down the staircase, his mind warning him that there was a catch somewhere. It couldn’t happen, he thought. He just couldn’t walk out of an interrogation with Preiser. It just couldn’t be.

  He came to the ground floor. There was a narrow passageway. He stealthily inspected it. At one end was the main entrance door, at the other — an empty room which opened on to a yard. It was dark outside, except when the moon flitted between the clouds.

  He stood quite still in the passageway. Preiser wanted him to leave the building, he thought. Even perhaps the district. But Stack knew that he was a dead duck. Somewhere they would get him. His time was limited. But he didn’t give up. No one gives up at that stage.

  He weighed up the situation. He could stay where he was and sweat it out. Preiser would close in. Stack would then be trapped inside the building. They would already have the roof under observation. He wouldn’t get out that way. The alternative was to go out into the open. That was what they wanted. At some place of their choosing they would eliminate him. It might be a car accident, a rifle-bullet in the back, or even an accident on the subway.

  So what did he do, he asked himself? He favoured going out into the open. No one would want to die in that foul-smelling building, he thought. At least he would die in the open. Which way? Rear or front? The rear was the obvious way, he thought, and decided to take the front.

  The front door was unlocked. He pulled it open and felt naked on the threshold. No hail of lead. He breathed easier, relaxed his shoulders, and hurried down a short flight of steps and on to the pavement. He didn’t hesitate on the pavement. He turned left, for no reason at all, and walked quickly away from the building. He came to a crossroad and took stock of his surroundings. The buildings were tall. Most were occupied.

  The area was badly illuminated. In the distance he could hear traffic. To his right was an open piece of waste land. Then he saw one of them and his heart sank. It was just a movement in the shadows along the street to his left. He went in the opposite direction. He walked slowly, listening for a sign of danger. A motor car entered the square, and he saw two more of them in its headlamps. They were closing in on him.

  He increased his pace. Where was he going? He was lost. A door opened; a woman yelled abuse and the door closed again. A dog barked and a motor-cycle engine coughed into life. All typical city noises. Stack heard them, but imagined others. The sound of feet getting closer. The metallic click of automatics being loaded.

  He came to a cross road and saw street lights in the distance. If he could only reach them, he would be safe, he thought. They looked warm and bright, but two figures were silhouetted against the bright background. There was no escape. He couldn’t turn back, they were behind him. He moved forward, keeping in the shadows. A hand suddenly grabbed at him. His heart missed a beat. He quickly jerked himself away from the hand, and the figure in the shadow.

  CHAPTER 15

  ‘It is Schmidt!’ a voice hissed desperately.

  Schmidt! Stack stopped dead in his tracks. Could it really be Schmidt? He felt the hand grab him again. It pulled him into the shadows.

  ‘Schmidt?’ Stack asked unbelievingly.

  ‘Yes,’ Schmidt hissed. Stack’s relief was enormous. ‘Hurry!’ Schmidt said urgently, and pulled Stack along a narrow lane.

  Stack didn’t need any second bidding. They came to a brick air shaft. Schmidt pulled Stack behind it, as two bullets smacked into the brickwork. There were more shots fired. The lane re-echoed to the crack and whine of flying bullets. But they were firing wild.

  ‘My car is at the end of the lane,’ Schmidt hissed. ‘Now run!’

  He gave Stack a push. Stack shot forward, darting from side to side. He could feel Schmidt hot on his heels. More shots were fired, and several bullets whined past, perilously close to their heads. They reached the dark shape of the car and got inside.

  Schmidt started the engine and the car lurched forward. He switched on the headlamps and picked out two figures who jumped to one side as the car shot through them. The rear window was suddenly shattered by a bullet. Stack dropped his head. So did Schmidt.

  Schmidt drove furiously, swinging the car around the open, demolished site, like an expert. Stack hung on to the handle on the dashboard. They swung into another street and came to a street with lights. The tension inside the car eased.

  ‘That was close,’ Schmidt sighed. ‘We are free of them!’

  Were they really free of them, Stack wondered? He looked behind him, through the gap in the rear window. There was no one on their tail. Thank God for that, he sighed.

  ‘But we can’t be certain,’ Schmidt warned. He turned off the main thoroughfare and followed a route through the deserted, half-demolished side streets.

  ‘Where are you taking me?’ Stack asked.

  ‘That depends on you,’ Schmidt replied. ‘Where do you want to go?’

  ‘West Berlin,’ Stack said. ‘And fast.’

  ‘We can only take you through Criller’s channel,’ Schmidt replied. ‘It would take too long to arrange any other way.’

  Stack silently swore. He had to get to West Berlin as quickly as possible. He had to get Gunter’s message before it was too late, but he had to play it carefully. To arouse Schmidt’s curiosity could prove dangerous.

  ‘Criller?’ Stack asked suspiciously. ‘You mean I take his place?’

  ‘You go with him. He is at the hotel.’

  ‘With him? Has Criller been contacted?’

  Schmidt turned his scraggy face in Stack’s direction. ‘You sound surprised,’ he said.

  ‘I am,’ Stack replied. He hadn’t been able to get near to Criller. Preiser had seen to that. Yet Criller had still got to the rendezvous.

  ‘Criller has paid his fee,’ Schmidt said. ‘He is at the meeting place. We can look
after him now.’

  ‘I didn’t tell him where to go,’ Stack pointed out.

  ‘Then someone else did,’ Schmidt said firmly. Again he looked at Stack. ‘Do not concern yourself,’ he said pointedly.

  In other words, forget it, Stack thought. Somebody else had made the contact. Someone else had got to Criller. Who, Stack wondered? Who else could it have been?

  ‘I thank you for saving me from Preiser’s men,’ he said. ‘To say the least, I am grateful.’

  ‘Save your gratitude,’ Schmidt said with smile. ‘I will be well paid when you get back to West Berlin.’

  ‘Well paid?’ Stack asked suspiciously. ‘By whom?’

  Schmidt shook his head and looked serious.

  ‘No further questions,’ he said sternly. ‘No more talk.’

  CHAPTER 15

  Stack and Criller sat in the bedroom watching each other. Stack saw Criller rubbing his wrist. Criller then removed his spectacles from his face and rubbed the bridge of his nose as if the spectacles were causing an irritation.

  Stack was suspicious. Suspicious of Lehna, of Preiser, of Schmidt. Suspicious of everything, and it all stemmed from the man calling himself Criller. With Criller everything was wrong. He didn’t look German. He didn’t look Jewish, and he certainly didn’t look like a man about to embark upon a new career and marriage. The only thing that tied up with what Lehna had told Stack about him were the spectacles. Nothing else seemed to fit.

  Criller was much smaller than Stack, and more heavily built. He had jet black hair, a dark, swarthy skin, and dark eyes. His face was square, his eyes wide apart, and his command of the German language restricted to certain essentials. Lehna’s description of her fiancé had pictured a tall, youthful, intelligent engineer. What had confronted Stack when he had entered the room was a surly, tense, middle-aged man, and the muzzle of an automatic revolver.

  Stack had overcome his initial surprise and established his identity, and link, with the man. They had taken up a stance of mutual distrust, and watched each other as they waited for their contact to take charge of them.