The Berlin Spies

by Alex Gerlis

  The he stood up, and Sabine followed.

  ‘I have to go now, and you obviously need to get to Theaterplatz. It has been a pleasure meeting you Sabine. I don’t suppose …’ he hesitated, looking sheepishly at the ground, his hands clasped behind his back, ‘I don’t suppose you’d join me for dinner this evening?’

  ***

  She joined him at the French restaurant on Rethelstrasse where he’d dined the previous night. The maître d’ was, of course, most attentive and Sabine would have been in no doubt Werner Pohl was a regular and respected patron. She let him do the talking. His family had made money – he didn’t say how, but managed to convey the impression he’d rather not talk about it. His job was to invest that money in interesting and lucrative projects around the world. He felt guilty at the amount of wealth he had and how it had been acquired – again, no details – so he looked for projects that as well as offering a high return had some social value to them. No, he said in reply to her question, he rarely saw his family these days: his father was dead, his mother was in a very expensive nursing home in Switzerland and his two sisters and their families, well... at this point he looked round in case anyone was within earshot – their politics were very different to his.

  ‘What do you mean?’ Sabine sounded a bit too eager.

  Herr Pohl didn’t answer as he chewed on a mouthful of fillet steak –he’d ordered it saignant. He waited a moment longer, drank from his glass of Burgundy, and replied in almost hushed tones. ‘Let me just say they are well to the right of me. But then …’ a pause while he chewed some more, ‘most people are.’ The last phrase was said without so much as half a smile. It was intended as a statement of fact, taking her into his confidence.

  There’d been a marriage he said, quickly – as if to get this out of the way, but it had been distant: ‘in more ways than one.’ She’d have to work that one out. ‘But please, I am so boring. Why would a pretty young student be interested in the life of a middle aged man! Tell me about yourself.’

  Sabine didn’t tell him very much. She lived in Maastrichter Strasse, north west of the city centre, near the university.

  ‘What do you study?’

  ‘Philosophy. In fact, a Masters in Philosophy.’

  ‘Why do you look embarrassed?’

  ‘Because my family say philosophy is useless.’

  He assured her it wasn’t useless, it was important young people developed an intellectual and questioning approach to life. He said he wished that in his younger days he’d devoted himself to studying philosophy or politics or a similar subject, rather than giving in to family pressure to make money. ‘But you must realise, it was just after the war … things were different.’

  And then he talked about the philosophers he admired and, of course, the greatest of them all – and again, he turned round to check no-one was listening – Karl Marx. But he didn’t elaborate, that would be for another time he said. It was getting late, he said, and he had to be in Brussels early the following morning for a flight to New York. He’d be there for a week and then in Zurich for another but he expected to be back in Aachen sometime in May. ‘Maybe we can continue our conversation then?’

  She agreed, and also agreed to his offer to order a taxi to take her back to where she lived in Maastrichter Strasse. ‘That’s so nice of you. I will only accept your offer if you accompany me. Then we can have coffee.’

  ***

  The small apartment on the top floor of a large house didn’t look enough like a student apartment, it was too tidy: no Che Guevara poster over the bed or books on the floor or empty bottles on a cluttered table, unwashed dishes and pans flowing out from a dirty sink.

  She came to sit next to him on the sofa as they drank their coffee, clutching the cup with two hands in an attempt to conceal her trembling. He could tell what thoughts were preoccupying her, the instructions she would have been given by the Red Army Faction leadership. We are told this Pohl will be very generous towards us if he is approached in the right way... apparently he has certain tastes, desires … it is your duty to do what we ask …

  She placed a hand on his thigh, held it there for a moment and then slid it up, leaning over to kiss him. He pulled out of the embrace after a while and stroked her cheek, gently. ‘Are you sure about this Sabine? I honestly have no expectation of anything, I …’ But she knew what she had to do and stood up, leading him by the hand to the bedroom. Once they had started, after a bit of awkwardness, she’d turned out to be an enthusiastic lover and he’d behaved himself, curbing his natural instincts – the tastes or desires she’d have been told about. But after they’d finished she’d left the room and when she walked back in, still naked, she was smoking what looked like a large and misshapen cigarette with an unusual, almost sweet aroma. She offered it to him.

  ‘It’s a joint,’ she said, laughing at the fact that he was clearly a novice. At first he was wary of feeling so uninhibited, worried he might say something he regretted.

  But after she showed him how to smoke it properly he found he didn’t really care about anything, and when they finished the joint – him smoking most of it – he grabbed her by the wrists and she giggled. She stopped giggling when he forced her down and climbed onto her, one hand gripping her hard by the jaw throughout. She squealed a couple of times and looked frightened and when he finished she pulled the sheets over herself and lay very still, her eyes filled with tears.

  When his head had cleared he went and made her a coffee and then said he was sorry if he was a bit rough, he must have got carried away. If she wanted him to leave he would do so immediately and he wouldn’t contact her again. ‘I’m really not sure what got into me. Maybe it is because you’re so beautiful.’

  But she sat up and wiped her eyes and said not at all, it was just she wasn’t used to it, but it was fine and she liked him very much and would love to see him again.

  Chapter 6

  Aachen and Mönchengladbach, West Germany

  April to May 1972

  ‘Sometimes it’s as long as two months, Werner, and I hear nothing from you – not even a postcard!’

  ‘I keep telling you Sabine, I go to boring places on boring business. What do you want me to do, send you a postcard of an office building?’

  They both laughed and she finished her joint. He restricted himself to just an occasional puff these days, he needed to ensure he kept a clear head. But for Sabine it was different: as soon as they had finished sex, she would light up a joint already rolled up and kept by the bed.

  It was a Saturday afternoon in the middle of April, and they were in bed in Sabine’s apartment in Maastrichter Strasse. She was rubbing her wrists, soothing the red marks where the rope had been tied.

  ‘Did I hurt you?’

  ‘Just not so tight next time Werner, but I always tell you that. And you promised you wouldn’t hit me again…’

  ‘I told you, I get carried away. It is not meant to hurt you, it’s … meant to be affectionate.’

  She looked away from him, towards the window. ‘And you still don’t tell me where you go …’

  ‘I have business around the world, you know that.’

  ‘Capitalism.’

  ‘It’s capitalism, Sabine, that keeps you and your comrades in funds.’

  ‘Talking of which Werner …’

  ‘I’m going to make another transfer next week, I told you. I’ll be in Zurich then.’

  ‘How much?’ She had leaned over to him, her head resting on his shoulders, her fingers drawing an intricate pattern on his chest.

  ‘Probably 400,000 Deutschmarks.’

  She said nothing but moved her finger away from his chest.

  ‘That’s a lot of money you know Sabine, it’s nearly half a million Swiss Francs.’

  ‘Of course I’m grateful, but you know how much money we need to fund the cause. I told you what Andreas said.’

  ‘I understand, but you should know me well enough by now to know how passionately I belie
ve in the cause too. That is why I have given you so much over the last two years. Do you even know how much it comes to?’

  ‘I have no idea, the money doesn’t come anywhere near me. Gudrun seems to be in charge of it. She controls the accounts, though now they’ve started dividing them up.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘They’re worried about losing control of the accounts if people are arrested. So when the money comes in – your money and all the other funds we get – Gudrun moves it around into other accounts. Meinhoff controls an account even though Gudrun doesn’t want her to, and Jan-Carl Raspe looks after another one. There’s another one in Hamburg, but I’m not sure who has control of that, and probably others which I know nothing about.’

  ‘Not Baader?’

  ‘Are you being serious? If Andreas had access to an account with even a few thousand Deutschmarks in it he’d go crazy, like a child in sweetshop. He thinks we should concentrate on robbing banks.’

  ‘Hah! And get caught? You say Ensslin and Meinhoff aren’t getting on. Why is that?’

  So Sabine told him, happy to unburden herself of the tensions within the Red Army Faction, which the press was now calling the Baader-Meinhoff Group. It was also an opportunity to share gossip – Werner was skilled at asking her questions which did not appear prying. He was able to tease vital information out of her while at the same time appearing uninterested, as if he was in fact doing her a favour by letting her talk.

  She told him about the different relationships within the group, who was sleeping with who, who was exercising the most influence, and about any newcomers. It was through her that Moscow had found out that a group of them, including Baader, Meinhoff and Ensslin, had gone to a Palestinian training camp in Jordan. Moscow didn’t like the PFLP – it was too revolutionary for them, too unwilling to accept any form of control – and they were pleased when Wilhelm was able to report Sabine said the trip had gone badly. Baader had had a row with them, complaining that he didn’t see why they should be trained for fighting in the desert, and saying that PFLP didn’t like their attitude and their casual attitude to wearing clothes.

  And then Wilhelm would gently lead her into telling him what actions were planned – the inevitable bank robberies, and the increasing number of bombings and attacks on individuals: American servicemen, police officers … a few months earlier Schäfer had told him this was what Moscow wanted to see more of. He was to do his best to encourage it, make suggestions of targets. Be subtle, but also make it apparent that it’s a condition of the money you’re giving.

  ‘There’s a problem though Werner.’ She had propped herself up on her elbows, her face very close to his, noses touching, the smell of cannabis still strong on her breath.

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘They say I don’t do enough.’

  ‘Who says?’

  ‘The others, but mostly Andreas. He says I’m leading a comfortable life here in Aachen, not getting my hands dirty. That’s how he puts it.’

  ‘But if it wasn’t for you they wouldn’t be getting my money.’

  ‘That’s not how they see it. They think I need to take part in an action. They’ve talked about it for a few months, but now they’re insisting. The other day Baader told me he was beginning to suspect I may be a Government spy.’

  ‘That’s ridiculous …’

  ‘Of course it is, but at times he’s not rational, and he holds such a sway over the others. Meinhoff may be the brightest of them, the real brains behind the organisation, but Andreas can control it through his emotions. I’ve been ordered to plant a bomb.’

  She was sitting back against the pillows now, the sheet pulled tight to her shoulders. She looked horrified saying the word ‘bomb’. ‘Can you imagine, Werner – me plant a bomb? I can’t even operate the cooker properly.’

  ‘Do you know the target yet?’

  ‘Hah! On top of everything, they want me to suggest a target. I wish I’d never got involved with them sometimes. Maybe we should just disappear Werner, you and I? I could change my name, I’ve done that before. I’m tired of this. We could go and live somewhere away from all this …’

  ‘Hang on, Sabine … hang on. You can’t give up now. If they’re saying you have to carry out a bombing, you won’t be able to run away. You must do what they say. Maybe when you’ve carried it out … then you can …’

  ‘But where, Werner? What should I suggest? A supermarket? An old folks home for Nazis? And there’s something else Werner.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘I think this could be to do with you …’

  ‘Go on …’

  ‘They said to me they’re having trouble manufacturing bombs: they are too amateur. They want to start a major bombing campaign and they asked me if any of my contacts could get hold of professional bomb-making equipment, especially detonators and timers. Does that make sense Werner?’

  ‘It could do … they’re the most sophisticated parts of a bomb. It’s not too difficult to get hold of explosive and casing, but good detonators in particular are very difficult to get hold of.’

  ‘And could you help?’

  ‘Me?’

  ‘’Who else do I ask? Maybe they think because you have so much money, you’ll be able to get hold of this equipment, I don’t know …’

  ‘Let me see what I can do Sabine.’

  ***

  He’d got a message through to Schäfer the following night, via a dead letter drop in Cologne. He said he needed to meet urgently. He was going to be in West Berlin for work that week, could they meet while he was there, perhaps?

  He was tied up in meetings in West Berlin until the early evening, and he couldn’t risk leaving early, meaning Schäfer had to come across in the afternoon and wait for him. He wouldn’t be able to go back until the following morning, so he was in a bad mood when they met.

  They were on the top floor of a brothel on Kurfürstenstrasse, in the heart of West Berlin’s red light district. If he was followed – which was quite possible, the BfV liked to keep tabs on its staff from time to time, especially when they were away from base – a visit to the red light district at least provided a plausible excuse.

  He took a tram to Potsdamer Strasse, got off a stop early, at the junction with

  Lützowstrasse, and walked from there, taking a circular route, including Kluckstrasse, the name of which always amused him. By the time he entered the brothel he was sure he hadn’t been followed, but he knew Schäfer would have had him watched anyway.

  Despite the warmth of the evening the room had its heating on, and Schäfer was wearing a coat. He was sitting, enveloped in a large velvet armchair of a dull, deep red and stained, like the walls, the curtains and the bed cover. He gestured for Wilhelm to sit on the bed. The ceiling was one large mottled mirror.

  ‘Did you request this room Schäfer – or are they all like this?’

  ‘You said it was urgent Wilhelm, get on with it.’

  So Wilhelm did get on with it, and from the way Schäfer nodded and then removed not just his coat but his jacket too, he could tell his companion agreed it was indeed urgent.

  ‘This is very good. Detonators and timers you say?’

  He nodded, and Schäfer looked pleased. ‘We were expecting them to run a proper bombing campaign.’

  ‘Can you get hold of them?’

  ‘Is that a serious question? Of course we can get hold of them. That’s the least of our problems. We could fill an Antonov 22 with them, but I doubt they’d clear customs very easily. Where are they to go to?’

  ‘As far as I can gather, Baader and Raspe are in Frankfurt. Sabine’s been told to go there in two weeks. It sounds like this might be where they’re making their bombs.’

  Schäfer stood up and paced the room, gazing disapproving at the ceiling. ‘Tell her to tell them you can get hold of what they need, but it will take a couple of weeks. Ask where they are to be delivered to. If they have any sense it will be somewhere away from Fr
ankfurt, but who knows? And you say they want her to suggest a target?’

  ‘It seems they want to see how committed she is.’

  ‘That makes sense. Actually, I can suggest an excellent target. Listen carefully.’

  Half an hour later it was time to leave. Schäfer said he’d stay there that night, and cross back in the morning.

  ‘On your own tonight, eh?’

  ‘Yes Wilhelm, on my own. Unlike you I’m able to control myself. You’d better get going.’

  ‘So soon? I was hoping you’d be able to get me a discount…’

  ***

  They left Aachen at one o’clock on the last Saturday in May. If everything went according to plan they’d be back in the city by early evening.

  He’d discussed the plan with Schäfer, who seemed unusually anxious. ‘Of course you’ll have to go with her. What will happen if she’s caught? It’s too risky. I can’t see why they want her to do this on her own, it seems like a bad idea.’

  ‘I told you why: they’ve been watching the place and apparently pretty young German women drive in and out of it all the time and they’re never stopped. They think if she does this on her own then it will be easy. I have to say, it makes sense to me.’

  ‘No, no, no… if she’s caught she’ll blow the whole operation and expose you.’

  ‘All she knows about me is that my name is Werner Pohl and I have an apartment in Jesuitenstrasse in Aachen, where I stay for no more than a few days a month. She knows nothing else about me. Werner Pohl will disappear the moment she’s caught. There’s nothing to worry about. It would be a lot worse if I go with her and I’m caught too. I wouldn’t look forward to having to explain what a BfV agent is doing planting a bomb in…’

  ‘You will accompany her,’ said Schäfer. The discussion was over.

  Sabine had travelled to Frankfurt on the second Monday of May for her briefing. She’d met Andreas Baader and Jan-Carl Raspe in an apartment on Inheidener Strasse, in the Bornheim district of the city. The apartment was now, to all intents and purposes, a bomb factory. While Baader paced the room, agitated and angry, Raspe calmly explained her mission to her.