The Berlin Spies

by Alex Gerlis

  Now he had passed seventy-five, an age he would never had dreamt of. Viktor’s uncharacteristic mood of resignation and reflection ended with the arrival in his office of Irma. It was her lunch break. He told her how he had admitted making contact with Edgar, but had not told Schäfer that Edgar could be en route to Cologne to confront Goalkeeper. Irma shook her head.

  ‘They’ll see that as treason Viktor, you must know that. I don’t know what’s got into you.’

  ‘He seemed to accept my motivation was to find a war criminal…’

  ‘Listen to you Viktor! You of all people… it sounds as if you trust them. You said this morning that we need to leave. Why are you sitting here like this? This is not like you Viktor. You look like a man waiting to be shot.’

  ‘I know how Schäfer works, Irma. His priority will be to check that Goalkeeper is alright. They’ll probably pull him out of Cologne for a while, but in the meantime they need me around to see what I’m up to. I need to get word to Edgar… it would be a disaster if he did anything.’

  ‘Viktor!’ Irma was leaning across the desk and holding Viktor’s chin, forcing him to look at her. ‘Forget about Edgar. We have no time.’

  Viktor stirred. Irma was right. ‘You go over today Irma.’

  ‘On my own?’

  ‘Of course, it’s far safer that way. We’ve talked about this so many times. You have those Federal Republic papers?’

  Irma nodded and opened her jacket, patting the lining.

  ‘Go back to your office for a couple of hours and act normally. Maybe tell them you have another migraine. Leave at four, through the back. The crossing at Bornholmer Strasse closes at five o’clock. It gets very busy, as you know, between four and five. Aim to go over then, with all those West Germans who can’t wait to get out of this socialist paradise before dark. You can’t go back to the flat, you realise that.’

  ‘I know, I understand.’

  ‘Good. I’ll get some cash for you now from the safe. Once you’re through the crossing you know where to go. That way I’ll know you’re safe.’

  ‘But what about you Viktor?’

  ‘I’ll probably come out through Friedrichstrasse station tomorrow morning. Don’t look so worried Irma, it will all be fine. Trust me.’

  Irma did trust him, she had little choice. She took just enough Deutschmarks for them not to appear bulky in the lining of her jacket, and said a hasty goodbye to Viktor. She knew it could be the last time she’d see him, but this was not so unusual. For all of their life together, she had understood when she said farewell that it might be for the last time.

  But she had a strange feeling this time. The Viktor she had said goodbye to in his office looked like an old man: someone who was tired, who knew the game was up and was accepting his fate. She fought against tears as she sat down back at her desk, and two colleagues asked if she was alright. Her distress was fortuitous; her migraine could not have appeared more plausible. The only remark they made when she left at four was to wonder why she hadn’t left sooner.

  Viktor watched Irma leave, along Behrenstrasse, from his office window. As soon as she was out of sight, he hurried down to the front entrance. He knew full well he’d be followed: for the next hour he’d be a decoy, drawing them away from Irma. The Bornholmer Strasse crossing was in the north of the Soviet sector, in Prenzlauer Berg, so Viktor headed east away from it, strolling slowly like the old man he was, pausing frequently, stopping a few times to rest. He was buying time, as much of it as possible. He walked along the Unter den Linden and spent a while in the university bookshop before crossing the Spree into Karl-Liebknecht-Strasse, and from there up into Marx-Engels-Platz. No more stopping, no evasive measures, no tricks – nothing the people following him could regard as suspicious.

  There was a bar here that he had always known would be a perfect place to head to if he was being followed. It had an open staircase leading down into a basement room which, as an experienced tracker himself, he knew would be a nightmare. It was small and open, with nowhere to conceal yourself. As he reached the bar he had six people following him. They did what he expected: a man and a woman came down to the bar, the other four covered the outside. Viktor knew a few of the men in the bar. It was a place where men of his age hung out, men who had fought against the Nazis – some with the Red Army, a few who’d been in the camps. Viktor had one particular friend there. Max was an enormous man, probably in his early eighties; a Polish Jew who’d led a partisan brigade in the Pripet Marshes during the war and settled in East Berlin at the end of it. Viktor waited for the best part of two hours, the couple keeping an eye on him looking increasingly conspicuous and uncomfortable. Viktor explained his plan to Max. He didn’t need to tell Max why. The walls of the bar were painted black and there was no toilet, just the stairs, the room and a bar. But there was a door, one you’d have to know about to see: a person could be standing next to it and be unaware of its presence. It was about three-quarters of a man’s height and the same colour and material as the wood-clad wall. Viktor stood against the wall, Max in front of him. After a moment he bent down and opened the door. Within seconds Viktor was through, and Max had closed it behind him.

  By the time the couple watching him realised he was no longer there, Viktor had already walked through a series of connected cellars, up a narrow staircase, along a corridor of sorts and out into Dircksenstrasse, well away from anyone who was meant to be watching him.

  And from there, he disappeared into the night.

  Chapter 26

  Cologne, West Germany

  The Tuesday

  Franz and Konrad were standing in front of a wide desk in an office on the top floor of the BfV headquarters on Innere Kanalstrasse. Everything about the office reflected the importance of the man it belonged to. Large windows allowed sweeping views of the Rhine as it made its way through the city and beyond, to the east, could be seen the vast expanse of sweeping forests. The carpet was so thick it felt like soft turf; the desk was curved and clearly made from an expensive and highly-polished wood.

  The man behind the desk was so important and his job so sensitive that he was known by neither his name nor a formal title within the organisation. People would refer to him, though never in his presence, as the Saxon, on account of his distinctive accent. In terms of hierarchy he came below the President of the BfV and possibly his two Vice Presidents, but no-one doubted the heads of the various departments deferred to him. In truth, hierarchies, organisations, protocols and structures didn’t matter much to him. He had far more important things to think about. His job was to stop the Red Army Faction, and as far as he was concerned the two men in front of him weren’t helping matters: they’d just delivered news of a serious setback. When he broke the silence there was no pretence of measure in his tone: he was both furious and incredulous.

  ‘You allowed her to just… get away. Seriously?’

  Franz and Konrad exchanged glances, each anxious the other should have the opportunity to reply. It was Konrad, the confident Bavarian, who eventually did so.

  ‘We didn’t allow her to get away sir; obviously this was not our intention. But the key to following someone is to allow enough distance and I regret that in this case we quite possibly allowed too much…’

  ‘Stop! You’ve been brought here to explain why you released a twenty-six year-old woman from custody and then managed to lose her in the middle of Cologne – and now you insult me by delivering a seminar on surveillance techniques. Maybe you have a better explanation?’

  The ‘you’ was addressed at Franz, who looked shocked, as if he’d hoped the Saxon hadn’t noticed he was there.

  ‘The only firm evidence we had against Ute von Morsbach was that for a number of years – perhaps six – she had been using a false…’

  ‘You’ll need to speak up. Don’t whisper.’

  ‘For around six years Ute von Morsbach had been using a false identity, namely Sabine Falkenberg. That was as much as we could charge her with. Altho
ugh we had monitored her arriving and leaving the apartment on Ratinger Strasse in Düsseldorf on a number of occasions, and she admitted knowing the people there and their connection with the Red Army Faction, it was all a bit too tenuous. The state prosecutor said it was not enough. We had no chance of charging her with conspiracy in relation to the murder of Heinrich Albrecht. I…’

  ‘But didn’t she admit to knowing that this Horst character had Heckler & Koch MP5s – and we now know from ballistics that Albrecht was shot with a Heckler & Koch MP5? Surely…’

  ‘It’s not enough sir, I’m afraid. However, she did offer us one very promising lead. She…’

  ‘You really must speak up.’

  ‘I am sorry sir. According to Ute, from approximately April 1970 to sometime in June 1972 she was in a relationship with a wealthy businessman called Werner Pohl. The Red Army Faction had heard about Pohl and sent her to Aachen so she could meet him and…’

  ‘She’s an attractive girl, isn’t she?’ The Saxon was holding a photo, nodding very slightly in approval, a slight smile on his face. ‘Does she use the fact she’s so attractive, eh?’ He was looking at Konrad.

  ‘Yes sir, I think she is well aware men – some men – would…’

  ‘… which is probably why you let her out of custody. Carry on.’

  Konrad continued. ‘She had an affair with Werner Pohl, during which he transferred many hundreds of thousands of Deutschmarks to different Red Army Faction controlled accounts. None of the money came to her. Pohl also apparently suggested targets for the Red Army Faction, which she passed on to the leadership. He also obtained military-grade detonators for their bombs. Within days of the arrests in June 1972 he disappeared. We can find no trace of him, none whatsoever. A Werner Pohl certainly rented a flat in Jesuitenstrasse, but there is no other trace of him. There are of course a number of Werner Pohls in the Federal Republic, but we’ve investigated all of them and none are the one she knew in Aachen. We even checked Werner Pohls in Austria and Switzerland, but nothing.’

  ‘Did she not have photographs of him?’

  ‘No sir. And the description she gave was not very specific. When we discussed the matter with our colleagues in counter-espionage, the consensus was that there may be a Soviet connection. They’ve long suspected the Soviets of funding and resourcing the Red Army Faction, but haven’t been able to prove it. However, she did give us a lead. She told us that in July this year she was here in Cologne, collecting something for this Horst. On her way back to the station she was on a bus, going down Innere Kanalstrasse…’ Franz gestured out of the window. ‘She is convinced – totally convinced sir – that she saw Werner Pohl crossing Innere Kanalstrasse. She said he was wearing a suit and carrying a briefcase, like he was leaving work. It was around six in the evening.’

  ‘So we brought her back here sir,’ said Franz, his voice more confident now the man behind the desk looked less angry. ‘We brought her to Innere Kanalstrasse and she was absolutely certain of the spot where she saw the man she knew as Werner Pohl.’ Franz paused and coughed. ‘There is no doubt in her mind sir that this man had crossed the street from right outside this very building. Every indication is he worked here. Our headquarters is the only building he could have been coming from. We’d brought her here in a van and she watched people entering and leaving the building all day, but no luck.’

  ‘So you let her go?’

  ‘No sir. Because everything pointed to Werner Pohl being someone who worked here, we felt the obvious course of action was to show her photographs of all the men who work in this building. Obviously showing someone like her photos of our agents represents a high security risk, but these are extenuating circumstances and even then we needed authorisation from the President. He was away, and it was going to take a day or two for one of the Vice Presidents to approve the request. We felt it would be wise not to waste that time.’

  Konrad continued. ‘So this morning we allowed her to walk around the centre of town, in the hope she’d spot Pohl. Naturally we were following her, but she was determined to get away from us. We lost her near the main railway station. She just disappeared into a crowd of people.’

  ‘And what time was that?’

  ‘Nine thirty sir: two hours ago.’

  ‘And that was that?’

  ‘Yes sir. We called in the police and searched for her, but I’m afraid she’s just disappeared.’

  ***

  All she’d been able to think about was that they’d send her to prison, and she’d die there. It would be Stammheim Prison in Stuttgart, the terrible place where all the Red Army Faction prisoners were being held. She wouldn’t cope with being locked in a cell, she’d be terrified. And the others would make her life there a misery; Baader had never understood why Werner Pohl had disappeared. She kept getting messages from him even after his arrest, to say that he blamed her for it.

  She was certain someone would try and kill her: if not her Red Army Faction comrades then maybe the state. It was only four months since Ulrike Meinhof’s ‘suicide’ at Stammheim, which everyone was insisting wasn’t suicide. Whoever was behind that would do the same to her.

  So she had every reason to distrust Franz and Konrad. They were quite clearly tricking her. They were going to charge her with having a false identity and with being involved in the murder of that Albrecht man. But they were also obsessed with finding Werner Pohl, and so she agreed to co-operate with finding him. She was happy to go to Cologne, happy to go round the city, happy to identify the precise spot on Innere Kanalstrasse where she’d seen him, happy to point out the direction he’d come from.

  On their first day in Cologne they sat in a van with darkened windows, at the very spot where the bus had been when she’d spotted Werner a couple of months previously. Wedged between Franz and Konrad, she watched as hundreds of people streamed into a large complex of buildings on the south side of Innere Kanalstrasse in the morning, and watched as they streamed out again at the end of the day. Just before six she was certain she saw him crossing the road with a group of people, but she said nothing, concentrating instead on watching which direction he headed in.

  That evening, back in the cell at the police station in Cologne, Franz told her they were going to show her photographs of all the men who worked in that building – more than fifteen hundred of them. This was taking a day or two to arrange, and so the next day she was to walk around the centre of town to see if she could spot Pohl, with them following her.

  The next day she did as instructed, and as she wandered around the Innenstadt she spotted her chance. Near the station a large crowd of people was milling around the concourse, and then a train must have arrived, because the crowd swelled even more so she quickly slipped into it. As she did so she took out the dark silk scarf she had in her pocket and wrapped it round her head. She then removed her jacket and turned it inside out.

  Franz and Konrad had been following a woman with long blonde hair and a red jacket. Now her hair was covered by a scarf, and tucked into the back of a white jacket. She hurried through the station and out through an exit on the opposite side. On Domstrasse she found a bleak coffee shop, the kind that made you wonder why the owners bothered. She had just enough money in her jacket for a cup of coffee, and found a table at the back of the basement where she hoped she wouldn’t be noticed.

  In the hours she spent there she was able to grasp just quite how desperate her situation was. She had no money, no papers and was a wanted woman. At one stage her desperation became so bad that she thought going back to her family in Augsburg might be an option. She’d certainly be safe there, at least for long enough to plan what to do and where to go next. Her parents had never pretended to understand her, but she knew they didn’t hate her. They even assured her that they loved her, though she couldn’t imagine why. For her part, she didn’t even like them: she despised everything they stood for and, as Werner had said to her more than once, how can you love someone if you don’t even like them? Going bac
k there would be as bad as the prison in Stammheim. She dismissed that as an option, and another plan emerged: she knew who’d help her.

  ***

  Once she felt she’d outstayed her welcome at the bleak coffee shop on Domstrasse, she’d found a busy restaurant round the corner. The toilets were in the basement, next to a cloakroom, from which she stole an elegant light brown raincoat.

  By five thirty she was in position: standing back from the road in the shade of some trees, and able to observe the part of Innere Kanalstrasse she’d spotted Werner crossing to the day before. She saw him at ten past six: the same quick, confident gait – she’d always had to ask him to slow down. She followed him as he turned into Niehler Strasse, and at the corner with Kuenstrasse he stopped at the entrance to what looked like flats above some shops. She followed him in as he opened the door.

  ‘Excuse me.’ He barely looked in her direction as he held the door open. She waited until it closed and could see that they were alone at the bottom of the stairway. She removed her headscarf.

  ‘Werner – it’s me, Sabine!’

  He spun round and took a hurried step back, staring at her in utter astonishment. He opened his mouth and then closed it, gripping the bannister at the bottom of the stairs. When he spoke his voice was weak from shock.

  ‘I’m, I’m not Werner… please go away, I’m not Werner.’ And then he looked round in panic, trying to work out what to do. ‘Look, perhaps you’d better come up. Be quiet though, please.’

  ***

  There were few personal touches in the apartment. Like its carpets, the place was tending towards threadbare. The furniture appeared dated and the television in the corner was dusty, as was the rest of the apartment.

  He pulled a wooden upright chair from behind the table and placed it in front of the rather raddled sofa she’d perched nervously on the edge of. He looked anxious, far more flustered than she’d ever seen him. ‘You can’t stay Sabine.’