by Alex Gerlis
When Viktor finished speaking Schäfer went over to the door and checked it was shut. He gestured for Viktor to join him by the window, where the Russian had to bend down to catch the German’s quietly-spoken words.
‘I didn’t want to say too much in front of Kozlov: the word from Moscow is that Andropov no longer trusts him, you know – the women, the drink… What I tell you now is in utter confidence. Goalkeeper has had mixed results as an agent, I have tended to talk him up to be honest. But he has been concentrating on one very important task in recent years. The plan was to get him inside the Military Liaison Office at the BfV. We thought it would take two or three years, actually it’s taken a lot longer. But he’s almost there. Once he’s inside it will be a goldmine for us: we’ll get access to the NATO defence plans for Western Europe. Andropov has made it a priority. We think Goalkeeper’s transfer is imminent.’
Schäfer turned to look at Viktor. ‘So, you can see why my main concern has been keeping Goalkeeper safe. At least you have been able to reassure me. We’ll talk later.’
Chapter 25
Bonn and Cologne, West Germany, and East Berlin
The Tuesday
Edgar struggled against the hypnotic effects of the wheels flying over the tracks on the first train of the day from Bristol to Paddington. He hadn’t slept for nearly twenty-four hours and was finding it hard to think properly.
He’d caught a train at five thirty and, by the time they’d reached Swindon and he’d finished his second cup of coffee, he was able to think slightly more clearly. He was sure they’d not been spotted in the village, and doubted they’d been followed as Paget drove him to Bristol and dropped him off near the station. But he couldn’t be sure whether Paget would say anything once he was back in London.
They could be waiting for him at Paddington, and in his exhausted state he was no longer too sure who ‘they’ were. So he left the train at Reading, only alighting as it pulled away from the platform to be certain that no-one left the train after he did. It was seven o’clock and a bus was leaving just ten minutes later. He was at Heathrow by eight.
He was travelling on his own passport, the only one he had on him having left Dorset in such a rush. There was ample opportunity for him to be picked up: as he bought a ticket, as he checked in, as he went through passport control and then as he boarded the plane. But no-one gave him so much as a second glance and the flight allowed him two hours of sleep.
It was midday when the Lufthansa flight landed at Cologne Bonn airport. Once he’d cleared customs Edgar found an Italian coffee bar near the exit. The mirrored walls and ceiling meant he could be certain he wasn’t being watched, and the espresso was so strong he could be sure of remaining awake for a few more hours at least.
***
Indecision must have been thick in the air around the Soviet Embassy on the Unter den Linden that Tuesday in September.
It hit Viktor when Schäfer left his office. He was uncertain whether to go and find Irma and flee East Berlin, or to wait where he was and hope they believed him.
Indecisive was certainly how both Kozlov and Schäfer could be described as they met in the formers’ office. ‘Do you believe him comrade Schäfer?’ Kozlov was pacing unsteadily around his office in his stockinged feet. A bottle of vodka, which had been full when they’d met first thing in the morning, was open and half empty on his desk.
‘I’m not sure Piotr Vasilyevich, I’m really not sure. He is absolutely correct in saying that Goalkeeper was a war criminal, and I believe him when he says that was his motive in pursuing him. But to contact this Edgar amounts to treason. And how much he’s told Edgar… I just don’t know.’
‘But everything is sorted in England, yes?’
‘Apparently so, but it is not a good situation. My main concern, sir… my only concern really, is Goalkeeper. As long as he’s protected, that’s all that matters. I have to concentrate on him – whether he’s been compromised in any way. I may have to tell Andropov…’
‘So what do we do with Viktor Leonidovich?’ Kozlov was sounding exasperated now, his voice even louder than usual. Mention of the Head of the KGB had unsettled him. His hand inched towards the bottle.
‘I was hoping you would be able to advise me in that respect sir.’
Kozlov slumped into his chair, holding the vodka bottle, proffering it in Schäfer’s direction.
The German shook his head, a gesture to both decline the offer of a drink and to indicate his frustration at his superior’s indecision. ‘As I see it sir, we have three options. I will explain them and then perhaps you could indicate which course of action we should follow?’
Kozlov poured himself a generous measure before pointing the bottle at Schäfer. Carry on.
‘The first option is to arrest Viktor for treason immediately, and let Moscow deal with him. If there’s anything he’s not told us, the specialists at the Lubyanka will get it out of him. The second option is to keep him here in Berlin, but take him into custody ourselves – either here or we can ask the Stasi to help out. It…’
‘No!’ Kozlov slammed the bottle down on the desk, his voice booming around the room. The desk top now had a small pool of vodka on it. ‘I am not having the Stasi going anywhere near him, those fucking Nazis knowing our business…’
Kozlov grabbed his cigarettes, managing to spill the whole packet over his desk before selecting one. ‘And the third option?’
‘We do nothing: leave Viktor here while I concentrate on checking that all’s well with Goalkeeper. Of course we’ll put a tail on him, which may produce interesting results. You need to decide which option is the most preferable sir.’
‘Or the least undesirable. Just as I don’t want the Stasi anywhere near Viktor, nor do I fancy Moscow knowing too much of what’s going on. If he goes back to Moscow then Andropov will hear about it and have me transferred: I’ll end up in some miserable town in Kazakhstan. How long will it take for you to check all is well with Goalkeeper?’
‘Possibly twenty-four hours Piotr Vasilyevich.’
‘Make it twelve – and whatever happens, don’t lose sight of Viktor.’
***
The espressos in the airport coffee bar were so strong that they’d been accompanied by glasses of cold water, a combination Edgar hadn’t come across before but which resulted in a remarkably clear head. He needed it: he knew that Richter – Heinz Fleischhauer – worked in Cologne, but he had no idea where he lived. He’d been relying on Viktor for that information but, worryingly, hadn’t heard from the Russian for a while now. The death of Canterbury and the other four men had made this trip urgent: he couldn’t afford to wait to hear from Viktor, despite the Russian telling him to.
Satisfied he wasn’t being watched, Edgar found a bank of phone booths in a dimly-lit area behind an information desk. He dialed the West Berlin number Martin Winter had passed on to him back in March, when Viktor had first made contact – it was how he’d made the initial approach, for the message to be passed on to Viktor that he’d arrived in Berlin.
A female voice will answer. She will repeat this number.
You are to ask if Klaus is there.
Edgar expected the phone number to be disconnected. Viktor would have been careful like that – using a number then burning it was standard procedure. But surprisingly it rang, and was answered very quickly: a man’s voice, which didn’t repeat the number, just a muttered, ‘yes?’
Edgar hesitated: ‘is Klaus there?’
A pause, three or four seconds – the response ought to have been far quicker, three or four seconds was too long. ‘Klaus is not here,’ and then the man in West Berlin put the phone down.
Back in March, Viktor’s instruction had been clear enough. If she replies and says there is no Klaus, then do not attempt to cross over. That would have been a straight warning then. Edgar did not know if he should take it as a warning now. There could be an innocent explanation, but the pause was too long and the man didn’t say exactly: ‘there�
�s no Klaus here.’ ‘Klaus is not here.’ Edgar didn’t know what to do. Should he abort his trip now? But Viktor’s advice in the cathedral in Vienna had been explicit. Go to Bonn regardless.
***
Edgar hired an Audi 100 at the airport, choosing a dark brown one, the colour of wet, clay-heavy mud: its drabness would, he hoped, help it to be unobtrusive.
It was a short drive from the airport to Bonn and Edgar parked on Adalbert-Stifter-Strasse, just around the corner from the British Embassy, a drab four-storey affair on Friedrich-Ebert-Allee. There was heavy security at the front of the building, no doubt due to the Red Army Faction attacks. He managed to get as far as the main reception, where he was able to persuade a reluctant clerk to put a call through to Clive Cowley. An old friend.
Clive Cowley had been a bitter man when Edgar first met him in the early 1950s. He was a relatively new recruit to the service then, in his mid-twenties, an age when he ought to have been brimming with enthusiasm. But he’d just been turned down for a posting to Washington which he reckoned he’d been promised, and was spending a year at HQ, which was then at Broadway in St James’s. After that he was to be sent ‘somewhere in Africa.’ At the time, Clive Cowley was Tarquin Cowley-Scott. He decided that his first name and double-barreled surname were the only impediments to an otherwise glittering career, so he dropped the Scott and promoted Clive from its previous middle-name status. Those adjustments didn’t have the desired effect: Kenya, Uganda, Nigeria… a spell in London, a couple of marriages, school fees for children he rarely saw. Saudi Arabia, where the alcohol prohibitions proved to be a problem which should have been foreseen. Then an undistinguished journey through Europe: Romania, Italy, Belgium… not even a Deputy Head of Station, and certainly never a sniff of Washington.
Now he was in Bonn, counting the days to his retirement. Hopefully he’d be able to point Edgar in the direction of Heinz Fleischhauer: an address maybe.
It had been a few years since Edgar had last seen Cowley, who now had a stooped posture and an altogether raddled appearance. His heavy tweed jacket was too small for him, while his shirt was too large and his faded tie was dotted with stains.
Cowley had been pleased enough to see Edgar, but curiosity at this unannounced visit made him guarded. The two men walked down to the State Park on the banks of the Rhine. Edgar knew how carefully he had to play this: to get the information he needed from Cowley, without alerting him to the fact that he probably ought not to be giving it. I’d appreciate it if you kept it quiet I was in town Clive… very sensitive… senior Belgian army officer in Cologne suspected of shoveling top-secret stuff into the east… London terribly nervous because of all this Common Market business and NATO, you understand… they didn’t want this to be too official, hence my involvement, best kept away from Bonn station… know I can trust you… and how are you keeping, being treated with the respect you deserve, I hope?
That was all Clive Cowley needed: no he wasn’t being treated with the respect he deserved, seeing as you mention it Edgar, never had been for that matter. He should have been given his own station years ago and, as for never being sent to Washington, well that was sheer spite, the fault of the socialists running the service… ex-wives fleecing him for every penny they could get, children hardly communicate unless they want something, salary utterly inadequate… tolerated like some demented old time-server, out of the loop for anything important… can’t wait to retire but the pension, Edgar…
Edgar sympathised. He couldn’t believe how badly his good friend was being treated. He wasn’t promising anything, of course, but he had contacts in the City – very high up – the type of people who appreciated old-fashioned values like loyalty and decency. They’d be very keen to take on someone like Clive when he retired. They call it consultancy, Clive. You’ll double your salary, more with bonuses. Nothing too taxing… no promises, as I say, but if you’re interested…
Clive Cowley found it hard to disguise just quite how interested he was. It was getting on for evening now, the sun sinking over the Rhine, and what had been a pleasant breeze was now whipping off the river with some force. The effects of the espressos had worn off and Edgar wished for nothing more than sleep: any bed in any hotel. But he couldn’t allow himself such an indulgence.
‘I say Clive… don’t know what made me think of him, probably being in these parts jogged something in my memory, but does Heinz Fleischhauer still work for us? You know, BfV chap…’
They’d left the park and were now walking on a path by the river. Cowley hadn’t replied to the question, and Edgar looked over at him. He was walking along at a steady pace, his head bowed and a slight frown on this face. He began to speak but then stopped as a couple rode past them on bicycles. They had disappeared from sight before he replied.
‘Heinz Fleischhauer you say?’
‘Yes Clive, Heinz Fleischhauer. We started using him back in the ’50s. Surely you know of…’
‘How do you know of him Edgar, he’s after your time surely?’
‘Well I never really left the service, did I Clive? When Fleischhauer first came on board Porter asked me to see him a few times, check he was what he said he was… you know the score.’
‘He’s still around, unpleasant chap – frightful manners. We don’t get much from him these days, barely makes our Second Eleven if you get my drift, which is probably why he’s in my team. We only get anything at all if we give him something in return – hardly worth the effort in my opinion. I told him as much when I last saw him. I said…’
‘So you’re running him are you Clive?’ Edgar tried to make the question sound as casual as possible.
Another pause. An elderly lady was approaching them, pulled along by a pair of large dogs, a lead in each gloved hand. Cowley waited until she was out of sight too.
Cowley nodded his head as he walked along. ‘Rather sums it up I suppose: former top agent, drops right down the batting order so yours truly can run him. Give me something to do, nothing too onerous. There’s no gratitude, no appreciation of my…’
Edgar no longer felt tired. ‘How about an early supper Clive? On me of course. Where’s the best place to eat in Bonn these days?’
Every minute of the expensive dinner, and what amounted to a two hour monologue from Clive Cowley, was worth it. By the end of the evening Edgar knew where to find Heinz Fleischhauer. And he suspected that, by the time he went to bed, Cowley would even remember he’d told him.
***
Around the same time that Edgar arrived in the city, Heinz Fleischhauer was summoned to the Personnel Department on the second floor of the BfV’s Bonn headquarters. This was no ordinary summons: it was to see Frau Schlösser, the woman who moved staff from department to department with the steely precision of a chess grandmaster.
‘You have been with the Rotation Team for six years now Fleischhauer. You have enjoyed it.’ It was phrased as a statement rather than a question, so Fleischhauer just nodded.
‘You have spent the past year in Technology Support. The reports on you have been very good.’ Frau Schlösser gave the impression of delivering the compliment in spite of herself. She had not looked directly at him since he’d entered her office, as if she regarded eye contact as an indulgence. ‘Now it is time for the next phase of your rotation. Are you aware of the Military Liaison Office?’
‘I don’t think I am Frau Schlösser, no.’ He tried hard not to react in any obvious manner.
‘The Military Liaison Office is perhaps the most sensitive section within the BfV, which explains why you’ve never heard of it. They only take staff with a very reliable work record: six years on the Rotation Team has helped in that regard. They take very few people from Rotation, but they have some people off sick and a heavy workload so you’ll go there for six months, which could be extended to one year.’
Frau Schlösser closed the file in front of her, wrote something on a piece of paper attached to the front of it and finally looked at him, delivering something
which, had he not known better, could have been a smile.
‘And when do I start Frau Schlösser?’
She looked at him as if the answer was obvious. ‘It’s Tuesday today. You’ll start next Monday. Maybe get a haircut before then Fleischhauer.’
He found it hard to contain his excitement. He’d have to meet Schäfer in person to tell him such wonderful news. Tomorrow he’d leave a dead letter drop demanding a meeting: ‘Most urgent.’ Schäfer would be thrilled. He’d have his hands on the Operation Open River plans in no time, and then everything Schäfer had promised about a war in Europe and a new Reich… he had to stop, he was so excited. He realised he’d almost been laughing out loud as he walked along the corridor.
***
Viktor snapped out of his indecision just in time. For a while he had remained at his desk, thinking about his life and awaiting whatever fate Kozlov and Schäfer had in mind for him. Since becoming an agent, Viktor’s existence had been so precarious he’d always had to see it in the short term. When he was twenty-five, he realised it would be an achievement if he made it to thirty. When he was thirty, he doubted he would live to thirty-five. He was operating in Western Europe then, the Nazis were coming to power and life was increasingly dangerous. He took little comfort in reaching either thirty-five or forty: Europe was first on the verge of war and then in the grip of it and it didn’t serve any purpose to think of survival, to do so was far too indulgent. He turned forty-five as the war ended, but by then he was back in Moscow and couldn’t see himself surviving to fifty: he doubted Stalin would allow that. But he did. And by the time Viktor reached fifty-five Stalin was dead, and while he did not exactly allow himself the luxury of contemplating old age, he was at least able to feel he had beaten the odds.