by Alex Gerlis
‘Well of course not you idiot! All the crossings close at five in the afternoon and your so-called experts here saw him in the bar in Marx-Engels-Platz at least three hours after that.’
‘But he hasn’t attempted to cross this morning, either. I’ve had the guards doubled at all the crossings.’
‘There’ll be an inquiry into this, you all understand that? This is totally unacceptable. To lose a man and a woman in their seventies, here in Berlin…’
‘I’m sure Viktor Leonidovich is still in the city sir, if that’s any consolation.’ Schäfer sounded like he was unconvinced by what he’d said himself.
Kozlov was scooping his cigarettes up and stuffing them back in the box, his hands trembling. ‘Viktor Leonidovich will outsmart you, you realise that? Mind you, after what you’ve just told me, it seems that’s not a hard thing to do.’
***
When Viktor emerged from Dircksenstrasse he knew he’d got the better of them, but doubted his advantage would last long. He headed west and then south in an arc wide enough to keep him away from Marx-Engels-Platz, crossed the Spree on Bodestrasse, and then went up into Clara Zetkin Strasse where he found a doorway to step into, from which he was able to watch the street and catch his breath. The place was deserted, no sound of footsteps breaking the silent night.
Further down Clara Zetkin Strasse was a small ironmongery. The owner was someone Viktor trusted; they did each other the occasional favour. He found the keys in their usual hiding place and let himself into the windowless storeroom at the rear. He knew he would be safe there: it was the perfect place to hide. But he still waited ten minutes before turning the lights on.
One of the favours Viktor had done for the owner was to pay for a special phone line to be installed. If you knew an engineer to whom you could be excessively generous – in Federal Republic currency – and you were near enough to the west it was possible, though quite illegal, to put in a line which connected with West Berlin. And it was a West Berlin number which Viktor was now calling. A woman answered.
‘Yes?’
‘It’s me,’ said Viktor.
‘She’s arrived.’
‘What’s the message?’
‘To let you know she brought six roses with her.’
Irma was safe. ‘Good, good. Is she with you?’
‘No – she came here earlier this evening, left the message and went off. There’s something else though.’
‘Go on, quickly.’
‘The Englishman called apparently.’
‘Really? When was that?’
‘This morning. Karl took the call.’
‘What time was it?’
‘Late morning: I was out.’
‘And what did the Englishman say?’
‘He said what he’s supposed to say: “is Klaus there?”
‘And what did Karl say?’
‘He says that he replied, “Klaus is not here.” If I’d been there I’d have used the exact form of words, you know that.’
‘That’s all?’
‘Only that I was able to trace the call to a call box at Cologne Bonn airport. Are you still there?’
There had been silence as Viktor was thinking. ‘You’d better stay by the phone for the next twenty-four hours.’
He’d feared that this would happen. He’d taken too long over confronting Schäfer, only to discover that Goalkeeper was an important, if unwitting, Soviet agent. If he’d been quicker and smarter he’d have called Edgar off long before he got anywhere near Bonn or Cologne. He’d been too hasty in revealing ‘Heinz Fleischhauer’ to Edgar, and now it appeared it was too late to undo his actions. It wasn’t hard to guess what had happened. Edgar had given up waiting for word from Viktor and was now in Cologne, ready to tell the British about double agent. Viktor shook his head and sighed. Goalkeeper was about to be exposed, and there was no hiding the fact it would all be his fault.
Viktor found a rough blanket, draped it over his shoulders and lay his head on the desk. He’d remain in the storeroom of the ironmongery shop on Clara Zetkin Strasse until the morning. He was just a five-minute walk from Friedrichstrasse station, where the warren of platforms, different tracks and subways were his best chance of getting into the west.
***
Reinhard Schäfer cut a dejected figure back to his office after the carpeting from Kozlov. It was ten past nine, and he didn’t anticipate that his awful morning could possibly get worse. But his secretary was hovering anxiously in the corridor, wringing her hands and speaking in an urgent whisper.
I didn’t know whether to interrupt your meeting. Comrade Volkov rang from Paris, three times… you’re to call him urgently, on a secure line.
Because of their proximity to France, KGB agents in Cologne and Bonn were traditionally looked after by the Service’s Paris station, based at the embassy on the Rue de Grenelle. Goalkeeper was an exception. Volkov was an ally of Schäfer’s, they’d worked together in Berlin and were friends who did each other favours, trading information and gossip about what was going on in their respective stations. Schäfer had rung Volkov the morning after his encounter with Viktor: let me know if you pick anything up, I may have to call Goalkeeper in…’
‘I heard you were meeting with Kozlov, I didn’t know whether you should be disturbed.’
‘I appreciate that Andrei. You have something for me?’
‘I’m afraid so Reinhard. You’ve called me on the secure line, yes?’
‘Of course.’
‘Sofia Rules nonetheless, Reinhard. It’s about Julius.’
Schäfer nodded, as if Volkov was in front of him. Sofia Rules: referring to agents only by their code name, even on a secure line or in person. Julius was Clive Cowley.
‘There was an urgent message this morning from Bonn – from Julius. He called at about six forty, and the idiot of a duty officer here waited before I got in at half eight before bothering to tell me. Why he didn’t think to contact me at home I don’t know. Apparently a man called Edgar turned up in Bonn last night. He was asking Julius about Goalkeeper, wanted to know where he lives…’
‘Hang on, this was last night and he waited until after six thirty this morning to tell us?’
‘I know, I know. The man’s a fool, all I seem to deal with these days are fools. But listen, it gets worse. Edgar stayed in a hotel in Bonn last night, and Julius had it watched. He found out he’d asked for a six o’clock alarm call, but when there wasn’t any sign of him by six thirty, he had his room checked. It was empty: Edgar had left during the night.’
‘And has Julius told Goalkeeper?’
‘Yes... but for some inexplicable reason not until seven this morning. He phoned him at his apartment.’
Reinhard Schäfer began to feel very cold. ‘And what happened – was Goalkeeper even there?’
‘Yes, but Julius is in a panic, he was gabbling on the phone. He kept going on about how we’re going to have to bring him in. He sounds terrified. We need to do something about him Reinhard; he’s dangerous in that state.’
‘I’ll have a think what to do. What instructions shall we give Goalkeeper though?’
‘Julius says he told Goalkeeper that he needs to go to ground, he should leave his apartment by eight o’clock at the latest.’ A long pause. ‘Are you there?’
‘I know you run him Andrei, but Julius is a liability. What makes him think he could leave it so late and then give such ridiculous instructions? This was two hours ago. Has Julius not heard any more?’
‘He was wondering whether to go into work as normal. I told him he must. Things are enough of a mess as it is without him drawing attention to himself by being absent, but he can hardly call Goalkeeper from the British Embassy can he?’
‘I don’t see why not: after all he does run him for the British. You’d better leave it with me.’
Schäfer leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes, concentrating on taking deep breaths. The walls around him were crumbling, brick by brick. He sensed
that it was too late to avert a disaster: Edgar would surely have arrived in Cologne already. He knew how to solve one problem though, and pressed the buzzer to his outer office. ‘Get Samuel for me – on the secure line.’
The call came through a minute later. ‘Samuel?’
‘Uh huh.’
‘Are you in the usual place?’
‘Uh huh.’
‘How soon can you be in Cologne?’
‘By car, just over two hours – under two and a half. By train a lot quicker.’
‘Get there as fast as you can. You’ll need to deal with our nephew there.’
‘Uh huh.’
‘And after that, go to Bonn. The uncle needs to be dealt with too.’
‘Uh huh.’
‘Be careful though, someone will be trying to get there before you.’
‘Uh huh.’
***
Viktor slept for perhaps three hours altogether that night, half an hour here, twenty minutes there. It wasn’t the discomfort of sleeping sitting up, with his head resting on the desk, that was the problem. He was used to that, and could usually manage to sleep anywhere.
Viktor’s code, one he had drummed into his agents and had lived by himself, was to never question, never discuss, never hesitate. But, as he got older, he had occasionally found himself harbouring doubts about these absolutes which had guided his life. And these doubts, as fleeting as they were, tended to come in the early hours of the morning: usually after two and before four – the time, his mother used to tell him, when people were most likely to die.
Never question, never discuss, never hesitate.
And what kept him awake that night was the realisation that he was about to turn his back on everything he’d stood for, the cause he had served for more than fifty years. He knew he could justify what he was about to do, but he also knew it would destroy him.
He left the ironmongery on Clara Zetkin Strasse at eight. He’d been ready and tempted to leave at six, but the streets would be too quiet and the station would be nothing like as busy as it should be two hours later.
His plan was one he’d had in mind for a long time, ever since he’d arrived in East Berlin and feared one day he may have to leave it in a hurry. Friedrichstrasse station was the border crossing for train passengers. It was hard enough for passengers from the west to get into the east through the station’s tightly controlled checkpoints and heavily guarded barriers. For people from the east trying to get into the west it was even harder, though still possible. But there was another way, and this was the reason he’d chosen Friedrichstrasse rather than one of the street crossings. There was an entrance on the southern side of the station for railway staff. It was also used by the Stasi to smuggle their own people into the west, and bring people from the west into the DDR. Viktor had long cultivated the guards at this entrance. They knew he was KGB and that he would need to frequently pop in and out, sometimes on official business, at other times simply because he hadn’t been out for a while and liked to keep his options open. It paid to be a familiar face.
But this morning something wasn’t right. Even though he knew the guard on the first gate, he was reluctant to let Viktor through.
‘There’s something up today sir, I don’t know what it is. There’s a real flap on, been like that since I came on at four. They’ve doubled the number of guards everywhere in the station and there are Stasi all over the place, even a few of your people as far as I can tell. By rights I should be clearing you with my boss and even then you’d have to stick to the railway staff corridor. I wouldn’t go anywhere near the barriers leading to the western platforms.’
Viktor didn’t need telling. Over the guard’s shoulder he could see the area was teeming with guards. Through an open door to a control room he saw half a dozen men in civilian clothes hunched over television monitors.
‘Just wait here a moment sir – I’ll check if it’s alright for you to come through.’
‘Don’t bother: it’s really not urgent, I’ll come back later. You take care.’
He moved aside as three border guards pushed past him and walked slowly away from the station. For a few minutes he stood in the doorway of a shop on Georgenstrasse, overlooking the subway entrance outside the station. There was no way out of East Berlin. He needed a while to think.
He walked the short distance to the junction of Georgenstrasse and Friedrichstrasse, and headed south towards the Unter den Linden.
Never question, never discuss, never hesitate.
Chapter 28
Cologne, West Germany
The Wednesday
Edgar arrived in Cologne just before five thirty on the Wednesday morning. The drive from Bonn had taken less than an hour on the deserted autobahn, and as he approached the city the sun was beginning to rise over it.
He negotiated his way round the city’s complicated bypass system and onto Innere Kanalstrasse, driving past the headquarters of the BfV where Wilhelm Richter worked – apparently as Heinz Fleischhauer – before turning left into Niehler Strasse, where he lived. He recalled Cowley’s directions: just past the park – block on the corner of Kuenstrasse, he’s above a pharmacy… pretty green shutters, like some Black Forest cottage…
Edgar drove down Niehler Strasse, past the park Cowley had helpfully drawn his attention to, and slowed down when he reached the junction with Kuenstrasse. Sure enough there was a pharmacy on the left and, above it, apartments with an entrance on Kuenstrasse and green wooden shutters on the upper floor windows which, if you were drunk like Cowley, could be reminiscent of a Black Forest cottage. Opposite the pharmacy, on the other side of Niehler Strasse, was a bar which, like all the other shops, had its metal shutters down. He continued driving along Niehler Strasse, turning right at the end of the block into Beuelsweg and right again at the end of that road, bringing him into Kuenstrasse. Fleischhauer’s apartment building was easily visible on the other side of Niehler Strasse.
He parked with a clear view of the apartment building, leaned back in his seat, and went over the plan which he’d begun to form on the drive from Bonn.
Once he’d flushed out Richter, found exactly where he lived and was sure of his new identity, he’d ring Charles Kemp in Bonn. Good news and bad news, he’d tell the young MI6 Head of Station there. I’ve found you a Nazi working at BfV who’s spying for the Soviet Union: that ought to earn you some Brownie points with the West Germans? Fancy giving them a call, better hurry though, he’ll be on the move soon… The bad news? Ah yes, your man Cowley, he’s spying for the Soviets too.
Just after six there were early signs of movement in the area, and Edgar felt able to leave the car. He walked up to the apartment block: alongside the entrance was a brass panel with the numbers and buzzers for the eight apartments and the names of the residents in a tab next to them. Apartment number five had the initials ‘HF’.
***
Edgar had spotted them earlier when he’d driven down Beuelsweg: half a dozen men, spread out under dirty blankets and torn up cardboard boxes in a couple of shop doorways, one or two of them spilling into a narrow alley. When he went back one was awake – much younger than Edgar had expected, with long black hair and piercing green eyes. Edgar knelt down beside him and spoke quietly. ‘I’m looking for someone to do a small job for me. It will take no more than a few minutes and I’ll pay very well.’
‘You’ve come to the wrong place.’ He didn’t speak in the Cologne dialect, and narrowed his eyelids as he looked suspiciously at Edgar. ‘You won’t find what you want here. There are boys you can buy but not at this time of the day and not in this part of town; the police look out for that. Try one of the parks after dark if you want that kind of thing.’
‘No, no… you misunderstand me. That isn’t what I meant, I’m sorry. Look all I need is someone who can come with me and then ring on someone’s buzzer, not far from here. Then you can go. It will take no more than ten minutes of your time, perhaps less.’
The young man appeared
interested, and when Edgar had pressed two fifty mark notes into his gloved hand, he’d agreed to come. Now they were sitting in the Audi, watching the apartment.
‘Tell me once more, just so I can be sure you understand.’
The man, called Andreas, sighed with the impatience of a child tired of being nagged. ‘I am to go to the apartment building over there, the one on the corner with Niehler Strasse with green shutters. I am to press the buzzer to apartment number five, the one with the initials ‘HF’. I am to ask if a Herr Fleischhauer is there. When the person replies I say, ‘are you Wilhelm Richter?’ I am to repeat that.’
‘Then you leave – quickly.’
‘Don’t worry; I’ll leave quickly enough.’
‘And then you forget everything, understand? Carry on down Kuenstrasse and disappear from the area for a few hours, preferably all day. I want you to repeat all this to me once more.’
Andreas’s reluctance was cut short by the sight of another fifty mark note Edgar was removing from his wallet.
‘And when do you want me to do this?’
Edgar studied his watch. ‘It’s ten to seven now: we’ll wait a few more minutes.’
***
‘It’s me. Are you awake?’
Heinz Fleischhauer was awake only in the sense that he wasn’t fast asleep – but his alarm had sounded just moments earlier and he was still in bed, the curtains closed. He’d fallen asleep late; the excitement of killing Sabine had kept him awake for hours. Unsure who the ‘me’ was on the other end of the line he hauled himself up into a semi-sitting position and muttered, ‘who?’
‘It’s me – from Bonn. You… you need to see the doctor today.’
Cowley: the occasionally sober Englishman, a man seemingly too incompetent to be a spy for one side, let alone two. But the code – you need to see the doctor today – was reserved for a real emergency. He was in danger. He was wide awake now.
‘I think someone is on to you.’ The Englishman sounded breathless and was clearly trying to keep his voice down. He paused to catch his breath. ‘You need to get away from your apartment, don’t go into work. Just get away.’