by Bill Walker
Invariably, the subjects reacted in one of three ways. Some would trip over their tongues trying to spit out their love for the DDR and of President Honecker, thinking the more they said, the better off they would be. What they didn’t know is that the more they said, the more the noose tightened around their cowardly necks, because Mueller knew they were lying, as surely as a hound could smell the prey he tracked. These people he would either imprison or shoot, depending on his mood.
The second group, when asked this innocent question, would stare at him open-mouthed, as if the very question itself were some abstraction that could not be apprehended by anyone of less than genius IQ. These he would bore into, knowing, as he did from his years in the SS and Stasi, that these people had something to hide. A little judicious pressure and they spilled their guts, denouncing their grandmothers as traitors. They would later become the perfect informers, eager to prove that they now loved the state in all its proletarian glory.
The third group would sneer at the very idea of loving the state, spitting at the ground in wordless contempt. From these, he would extract the information he needed, then shoot them. These people were the true dangers to the state, possessed of a free and stubborn will.
“And which one would you be, Grandfather?” he said to the old peddler down in the street. The old man could not hear him, of course, continuing on his way with grim determination.
Mueller smiled and turned from the window, returning to his desk and the just delivered copy of Frankfurter Allgemeine Zeitung waiting on his desk. It lay unfolded to the front page, with its large black and white portrait of Friedrich Rainer bordered in black with the dates: 1916-1984. Underneath the picture the small headline read: RAINER FUNERAL SNARLS TRAFFIC.
Mueller stared down at the picture, his expression dour. “So, my old foe, they finally got you.... Verdammt Bolsheviks!”
Grabbing up the paper, he tore it in two, tossing both halves into the metal waste bin at the side of his desk. He sat down and gazed at the latest teletyped reports from the major stations around the world and ignored all but the West Berlin report. It simply said: GREEN.
Mueller reached for his intercom and pressed the button to summon his assistant. A moment later the door opened and a slim young man with washed-out blonde hair and a corpselike complexion walked through carrying a steno pad. Mueller waved away the pad.
“Never mind that, Aldo. Tell me what’s happening.”
“The London office reports that the Atwater situation has proceeded as planned.”
“Sehr gut. Tell Karl he is now assigned to Thorley, and to await further instructions. Is that clear?”
“Ja sicher, Comrade General.”
“Have we heard from Mallory?”
Aldo shook his head. “No, Comrade General. However, we have another South Wessex letter prepared. Shall I send it to England in the pouch?”
“No, destroy it....” Mueller brooded, his eyes staring out at his assistant. A moment later he came to a decision. “Make arrangements for me to travel to the Western Zone, at once. Use the Abelard identity.”
Aldo looked surprised. “How long?”
“Indefinite.”
“The Politburo will ask questions.”
Mueller’s lip curled into a sneer. “Then you shall give them the appropriate answers, or I shall be forced to tell them all about your little boyfriend in Leipzig.”
Aldo paled, his eyes blinking even more rapidly than before. “Comrade General, I—”
“You thought I didn’t know?” he asked with a scolding look. “Shame on you, Aldo, for underestimating me.”
Aldo hung his head, embarrassment coloring his cheeks a bright red.
“Now, now, we must never hang our head, Aldo. You have nothing to fear, unless you cross me. Is that clear?”
Aldo’s head snapped up, his eyes shining with relief and renewed purpose. “Perfectly clear, Comrade General.”
“Good, now get to those arrangements. I will be leaving within the hour.”
“Ja sicher, Comrade General!” he said, snapping a salute.
Mueller returned the salute with a relaxed wave and waited until the young man had left the room. Then he returned to the window and looked eastward, his eyes narrowing with hatred.
“Now, you Slavic bastards will pay...for everything....”
Chapter Fifteen
The red Mercedes 500-SL sped along the narrow two-lane road, its high beams cutting through the mist that had sprung up after nightfall. The German two-seater effortlessly hugged the turns on the twisting road with nary a squeak from its wide Pirelli tires.
Inside, Erika slapped the shift into cruise gear, eyed the rearview mirror, then turned to Michael. He stared out through the windscreen, his eyes focused on the road, his mouth a tight thin line.
“Are you all right?” she asked.
“I’m fine. It’s just a bit unnerving sitting here on the right with no wheel in front of me.”
Her full lips curled with amusement. “I’m an excellent driver.”
Michael turned to her, a blush rising on his cheeks. “No doubt you get a lot of practice dashing about on the Autobahn.”
Erika ignored the subtle dig, offering one of her own. “My father taught me well.”
Michael sighed. “Christ, I’m sorry. That was callous of me.”
“That’s all right. I sometimes want to forget it, myself,” she said, falling silent again.
When would he ever stop putting his foot in it? Of course, she was an excellent driver, most of the Germans were.
And the Mercedes was not exactly a piece of crap, either.
Why was he so bloody uptight?
It wasn’t Erika, though Lord knew she was the kind of girl that could make a man sweat a bit. No, it was something else, something he really didn’t want to admit to himself; it came forth unbidden, nevertheless.
He was afraid to take her to his mother’s home. He was afraid she would draw the wrong conclusions, and afraid she wouldn’t. It was all so bollixed up in his mind he didn’t know which way was bloody up. As silly as it was, he was fearful that his mother would find Erika wanting somehow. And the most absurd thing of all was that he’d only just met her two hours before. Surely, if she knew what was going on in his mind right this moment, she would laugh in his face.
“Is it much further?” Erika asked, breaking into the stream of his thoughts.
“It’s about a mile further up the road,” he said. “You’ll take a right at the crossroads.”
Ten minutes later they pulled into the long drive leading to his mother’s cottage nestled into a stand of fir trees. The Mercedes’ tires crunched over the gravel and Michael winced as he heard several stones glancing off the doors. Why his mother had never had it paved was like asking why they celebrated Boxing Day after Christmas when they didn’t have servants to give gifts. “It’s tradition,” his mother would say with an arched eyebrow. “We’ve always done it.”
The car rounded the circular drive with its concrete birdbath set into the tiny island garden, coming to a halt directly across from the front door.
“Welcome to Woodhaven,” Michael said, opening the car door and climbing out.
Erika followed suit; her eyes filled with wonder as she examined the cottage. It was typical English two-storey red-brick construction, built in the late 1800s, boasting a genuine thatched roof that needed replacing every five years, as well as leaded-glass windows that sparkled like rainbows when the afternoon sun arced through them every day.
“It’s lovely, Michael. But what did you call it?”
“Woodhaven. My grandfather built it in 1891 with his own hands and thought it should have a proper name. People did that back then.”
“I think it’s charming,” she said, flashing that hundred-watt smile again.
The front door opened, and Lillian Thorley emerged, a tentative smile on her face. Though, it had been nearly six months since he’d last visited, he noticed she’d changed her
hairstyle. It was a shade darker and was now off her shoulders in a soft perm, making her look at least ten years younger. Her dress, too, was more contemporary, more stylish than he recalled her wearing.
Had she finally found someone to replace Michael’s father?
He felt a strange mixture of emotions. Happiness, envy, and perhaps more than a little shock. After all, one did not like to see one’s mother having a fling.
Lillian came forward and enfolded him in her arms. “Michael, darling,” she said, patting his back. “So good to see you.”
At least one thing hadn’t changed. She still wore the same fragrance she’d always worn—Chanel No. 5. It was her one extravagance, and he could never smell it without thinking of her. It was the main reason he’d never been able to date a woman that wore it.
Breaking the embrace, Lillian turned to Erika, appraising her with a cool eye. The moment stretched for so long that he found himself growing uncomfortable, though he could see no such discomfort in Erika, who returned his mother’s gaze with a level stare of her own. Just as he was about to intervene, Lillian broke the mood with a warm smile. “It appears my son has good taste, after all.”
Erika laughed, and Lillian and Michael joined in.
Lillian put her arm around Erika and led her inside. Michael followed, shaking his head.
The cottage remained unchanged; the same cozy room, fire in the hearth, stuffed chairs with lace antimacassars, the grandfather clock ticking away the hours, and dozens of photos of a growing Michael atop the baby grand piano in the corner.
Lillian motioned for Michael and Erika to sit on the love seat, while she took one of the hard-backed chairs. Between them lay the remains of her evening meal on the coffee table.
“You must forgive me,” she said. “I would have fixed you something, I’m quite embarrassed.”
Erika smiled and shook her head. “That is not necessary, Mrs. Thorley.”
“You have such a lovely accent, my dear. Where are you from?”
“Germany.”
“Beautiful country, I’m told, but such a troubled place. I’ve never traveled there, you see, but I’ve heard that the Oktoberfest is such fun.”
“Mother,” Michael interrupted. “Erika and I need your help.”
“You do?” she asked, with a puzzled frown.
“Mrs. Thorley, it’s not what you think. Michael brought me here because he thought you might be able to help me find out who killed my father.”
“What? Oh, my poor dear child.” She turned to Michael. “How long have you two known each other?”
“Michael and I met this afternoon.”
And then Michael listened as Erika retold her story to his mother. To Erika’s credit she kept her story emotionless, though he knew the retelling of it must be tearing her up inside. As for his mother, she listened patiently, her expression becoming more and more grave.
“...So, you see, Mrs. Thorley,” Erika said, “I’ve nowhere else to turn. I’m sure my father would not have told me to come to England, unless he knew that your late husband could help.”
Lillian glanced at Michael. “But surely he must have known that my husband died during the war....”
“I don’t know what to say.” She paused, her eyes clouding with tears. “My father was a meticulous man. He had to have known...and yet his instructions were explicit.”
“Perhaps Dad left something,” Michael offered, trying to defuse a situation that was becoming more and more awkward. He was beginning to think the whole idea of bringing Erika here was a fool’s errand. And yet, he couldn’t—didn’t—want to give up so soon.
Lillian shook her head, as if trying to remember. “It was all so long ago. I put all of your father’s things in the attic. I couldn’t bear to look at them after the army sent them home.... We had so many plans.” Her expression saddened, aging her badly, and making Michael’s heart ache.
How could she stand the loneliness all these years? he wondered.
“May we go up and look?” he asked gently.
He saw the briefest look of panic sweep across his mother’s face.
“But it’s so dangerous up there. I’ve been trying for months to get the local carpenters to have a go....” She turned to Erika. “The beams are weakened with dry rot, you see.”
Erika leaned forward in her chair, her eyes taking on a desperate look. “It would mean the world to me, if you would let us.”
Michael watched as his mother stared into Erika’s eyes. A moment passed, and then an understanding.
“Very well. But do watch your step around the north corner. The beams are most precarious there.”
Michael grabbed an electric torch from a drawer in the kitchen and the two of them left Lillian to the remnants of her supper and clambered up the narrow stairs to the second floor.
Lillian tried to remain calm, but the knot twisting her stomach would not let her relax. She had hoped Michael wouldn’t go up into the attic, had even lied about dry rot in the beams, but to no avail.
And now he was going up with that young woman, and God only knew what he would find. She should have thrown it all out years before. But she could never bring herself to do it. Just as she could never give up Paul.
What would she tell him about this? Nothing, that’s what. What he didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him—or her and Michael.
Her mind returned to the young woman. She could tell Michael was infatuated with her. She could see it in his eyes. After all, what kind of mother would she be if she couldn’t? And though Erika seemed to be a nice young girl this mystery of her father’s death was all so unsettling.
Taking a bite of her dessert, she realized that she felt calmer. There was nothing to worry about. Michael had gone through all his father’s things years ago, despite her admonitions to the contrary. Boys will be boys, after all.
At the top of the stairs, Michael reached for the light switch. A click, and the single bare bulb hanging from a wire nailed to the roof’s peak snapped on, casting a harsh unforgiving light. It was more cluttered now than he remembered it, and the dust seemed thicker, as well. Still, it brought back a pang of old memories when he saw the old tailor’s dummy, recalling his imaginary drills and hand-to-hand combat with it.
“My God, it will take us hours,” Erika said.
Her voice echoed, giving it a plaintive quality.
“Not when you know what you’re looking for.”
Erika frowned, puzzled.
Michael stepped around her, a mischievous smile on his face, headed for a pile of steamer trunks. “I spent many a rainy day up here when my mother thought I was otherwise occupied with my homework.”
Erika joined him as he began pulling off first one trunk and then another. Near the bottom they found a sand-colored footlocker with the legends, “MAJ. MICHAEL THORLEY” and “WD,” stenciled on the lid in black paint. As a child, Michael had always wondered what the “WD” meant, thinking it was some mysterious designation for those killed in action. He now knew it stood for War Department. There was a hasp for a padlock, but if there had been one it was now long gone.
Michael unsnapped the other clasps on the lid and then reached for the handle, hesitating at the last moment, unsure if he really wanted to go on.
“I used to come up here quite a lot when my Mum was out. Got quite a tanning the one time I was caught. You’d think a boy would have a right to look in his dead father’s footlocker....”
He sighed, as Erika laid her hand on his shoulder and squeezed. Suddenly aware of nothing else, he turned and looked into her eyes. She smiled her reassurance and Michael returned it. “What the hell,” he said, throwing back the lid with a loud clatter. “Might as well have a go.”
A feeling of nostalgia returned as he went through the locker’s contents. When his hands closed around the German Pilot/Observer Badge and the box marked, “Military Cross,” he resolved to take them with him this time. In fact, there was no reason not to take the entire footlocker with
him. After all, he was the man’s son, wasn’t he?
And then his fingers closed around another familiar object. Pulling it out into the light, he blanched. It was the Walther PPK. And except for a few spots of rust, it appeared to be in excellent working order.
“Exactly the sort of thing a boy would want to play with,” he said, recalling the times he’d held it in his hands. It felt so much lighter now. “It’s no wonder my mother didn’t want me to play up here,” he continued. “I wonder why she never got rid of it?”
“May I see it?” Erika asked, extending her hand.
Michael dropped it into her palm and watched, amazed, as she removed the magazine and checked it. It appeared to be full. She then pulled back the slide, locking it into place, causing the round in the chamber to be extracted.
“My God, it was loaded.”
“There’s only six rounds here,” she said. “It holds seven, plus one in the chamber.”
“Probably been there since my father’s death. I wonder who he captured it from? Poor sod. Where’d you learn your way around guns, anyway? Your father?”
Erika nodded. “He always believed a woman should know how to defend herself. And a pistole is the ideal equalizer for a woman to possess, nicht wahr?”
“Well, you’d definitely get my vote for Miss Self-Defense 1984.”
Smiling wryly at his joke, Erika snapped the slide back into place and then pushed the loose 7.65mm round back into the magazine and slid it back into the butt. She pointedly put the pistol on safety and laid it carefully onto the pile of clothing and accoutrements piled next to the footlocker. A few minutes later, the footlocker was empty.
“That’s it, then,” Erika said, resigned.
“I’m sorry.
Erika grabbed his hand. “Don’t be. You did your best. And I am forever grateful.”