“Jimmy, you’re a star. I really do owe you one.”
“My pleasure, Harry. I’ll ask around about Stolz for you. But do me a favour, keep the Tilza thing under your hat. Don’t want to poke the tigers.”
Chase regretted calling his friend as soon as he put the phone down. ‘This is stupid and none of my business,’ he chided himself. But he opened up his computer and found a copy of The Times of the fifteenth July last year, all the same.
77
Temporary Office of the Bundesnachrichtendienst (BND), Habersaathstrasse, Berlin, Germany
Construction of the enormous sand-coloured building in Chausseestrasse was nearing completion, but the offices were not yet occupied by members of the German Federal Intelligence Service, so they were taken to a nearby, white, three-storey terraced house in Habersaathstrasse.
After security checks, and the surrender of their mobile phones, they passed through two different scanners before being asked to wait in a small, unadorned reception area, complete with the obligatory CCTV. They were not offered a drink.
Ten minutes later, they followed a uniformed policeman down a corridor on the first floor. He flashed a card across a metal plate and the door buzzed as it popped open. The meeting room was windowless, with walls of white, grainy tiles. Where the tiles met the door frame, Conza noticed the lining of dense, grey foam. ‘Soundproofed,’ he concluded.
The square room contained a long, narrow table surrounded by six chrome and leather armchairs. A screen took up almost the entire wall at the far end. A single speaker sat in the middle of the table, its cable disappearing through a hole in the floor.
They sat down and waited again.
The door buzzed loudly, and the man who entered, spoke in fluent English.
“Good morning, Colonel Scutari, Lieutenant Conza. Welcome to Berlin. You may call me Ralf. Please sit down.”
He avoided eye contact and his hand was warm and soft. His handshake was languid and weak. ‘Fingers of a pianist.’
By the time the colonel spoke, Ralf was already seated and browsing a pink file he’d brought with him.
“Thank you for agreeing to meet us, Ralf…”
He raised a hand but didn’t look up.
“Just one moment, Colonel. I’ve been instructed to wait for someone else.”
‘…and I don’t think you appreciated that instruction,’ Conza thought.
Conza watched Ralf as he read. He was around thirty years of age, slim, pale, almost translucent skin, wavy brown hair. Neatly dressed. Ribbed, red tie, white shirt, blue linen jacket and grey woollen trousers. ‘Casual enough to feel at home, smart enough to appear efficient,’ thought Conza.
The door buzzed once more.
The newcomer wore a black, pinstripe, three-piece suit. His tie was dark blue with small, winged dagger motifs running in diagonals. His hair, which hadn’t seen a comb for a while, was a tangle of black-grey waves. Broad shoulders, wine-stained cheeks and nose, and deep wrinkles around his quick, blue eyes. ‘At least fifty,’ thought Conza as the man breezed towards him, grinning.
“This is Mr Smith, Colonel,” said Ralf, without raising his head, the piano player’s fingers waving in their general direction. “He’s British.”
“Charles Babcock, lovely to meet you. MI6 actually. I think the colonel can know that much, Ralf,” he exclaimed, grasping the colonel’s hand and shaking it vigorously.
“All on the same side now. And you must be Lieutenant Conza. Raphael, isn’t it?”
“That’s right, everybody calls me Raffy.” Babcock’s fingers were hard, dry and very strong.
“Then Raffy it is. Come on, take a seat. Ralf informs me you have a story to tell. I’m all ears.”
Ralf opened his eyes and closed the folder impatiently.
“Before we begin, I would like to ask the colonel a few questions.”
Ralf’s back straightened as he leant forward, clasping his hands together neatly. Babcock winked at Conza.
“Colonel, whilst I don’t doubt that we’re all ‘on the same side’, I was surprised to receive your request for a meeting with the BND. You work for the finance ministry in Italy, I believe. Berlin is not a part of Italy. Are you not outside of your area of jurisdiction?”
The colonel was unperturbed. And it suddenly occurred to Conza, he never was.
“Firstly, thank you for agreeing to accept my request for a meeting.”
Ralf smiled painfully.
“You are of course correct. The Guardia di Finanza normally involves itself in internal matters; borders, smuggling, docks, airports, that sort of thing. However, we also have a remit to investigate organised crime, wherever that may lead us.”
“But we have no Italian mafia in Berlin, Colonel.”
“Plenty of bloody Russians though,” chirped Babcock, with a grin.
Conza covered his mouth with the back of his hand.
The colonel responded.
“The mafia is only one of many organised crime organisations operating across Italy, and across the whole of Europe and the United States for that matter, as you are aware. Last Sunday a German businessman was killed in Milan. Italian State Police are investigating his murder. Guardia di Finanza are involved because the assassination has the hallmarks of organised crime. Therefore, whilst Berlin is not within my jurisdiction, the murder of one of your citizens is. As he came from Berlin, I thought you may wish to assist.”
Babcock had already taken to the colonel and was nodding encouragingly. But Ralf wasn’t going to concede so easily.
“Then the normal procedure is for you to make enquiries with the German police authorities, not the German secret service.”
The colonel sat back in his chair.
“And had you not granted my request for this meeting, that is exactly what I would have done. However, you didn’t refuse, which tells me you are interested in what we have to say. So why don’t we drop the bullshit and try to find out who killed Lukas Stolz?”
Even Babcock held his breath.
Ralf was looking down again. His shoulders rolled back as if he was stretching the muscles in his neck.
“We do have an interest in Herr Stolz, Colonel, you are correct. But I reserve the right to call a halt to this meeting if at any time I believe it conflicts with German national interests.”
The colonel sat forward again, ignoring him.
“Mr Babcock, whilst I’m pleased that you’re here, your attendance is something of a surprise.”
“To be fair to Ralf, that was his idea. We too have a stake in the activities of Stolz, and Ralf thought it would be a good idea if I came along.”
“In which case, thank you Ralf.”
“It was a logical step,” Ralf muttered into his chest, before opening his folder again. “Now perhaps, Colonel, you would be good enough to bring us up to date with your enquiries.”
The colonel summarised the Stolz investigation, bringing out photographs as he referred to individuals. When the grainy picture of Alexander Kurti was put on the table, Babcock snatched at it. His forehead creased. He wasn’t grinning anymore.
“Alexander Kurti. Now there’s a bad egg.”
Ralf nodded without emotion.
After summarising Conza’s conversation with Katherine Harper, the colonel sat down.
“Well, I don’t mind kicking off,” said Babcock earnestly.
Conza flipped his notepad open.
“The Schuman deal was pretty much as you describe. Felix contacted us in ’66, he had a job in Berlin as a weapons adviser to the East Germans. His information was pure gold. The Americans were green as hell. Spying was cloak and dagger back then. Secret drop-offs, secure radios, that sort of thing. Felix Schuman was pretty good at it, by all accounts.”
“Until Lukas Stolz told the Stasi about him spying for you in ’68,” said Conza, determined not to be left out.
They all looked at Ralf.
“Lieutenant, the evidence of Lukas Stolz being a Stasi informer, t
he documents in the possession of Dieter Stolz that he showed to his daughter. Do you know whether they were originals or copies?”
“Originals. Katherine was certain.”
“Did she show them to you?”
“No, he didn’t let her keep them. She said her father told her they would be sent to Josef Schuman.”
“In the letter, delivered to Schuman in 1990 shortly after Dieter Stolz died?”
“Yes.”
“That’s a shame.”
Ralf was taking his time. Conza couldn’t work out if he just enjoyed being the focus of their attention, or he was making sure he didn’t divulge anything useful.
“And are you taking seriously Mrs Harper’s assertion that Josef Schuman intended to kill Lukas Stolz?”
“No, I don’t think we can. Schuman knew Stolz was an informer in 1990, but in 1994, he let him join his company. Since then, Stolz has worked unmolested. Personally, I think Schuman’s threat was just said in a moment of anger.”
“I see. Have you interviewed Josef Schuman, Lieutenant?”
The colonel interrupted.
“Be assured, that was our next step. Would that cause you a problem?”
“No problem to me, Colonel, but I’m not sure he will cooperate. Mr Schuman is very well protected.”
Ralf splayed his hands on the table.
“By an army of lawyers for one. And he still has friends in powerful positions in Berlin.”
“Are you saying the German government would shield him from an investigation?” asked the colonel abruptly.
Ralf gave a sickly smile and shrugged his shoulders.
“I didn’t say that Colonel. I merely wish to warn you that it will not be easy to interview Herr Schuman. For one thing, you have no jurisdiction in Germany. His lawyers will know that you cannot compel him to talk to you.”
“And you won’t help us?” asked Conza becoming irritated.
“As I just told your colonel, Lieutenant. There are procedures, channels through which such requests should be made. I’m sure the German police will provide you with every assistance. If they can.”
The colonel didn’t flinch. His voice remained calm and controlled.
“Do you know why Schuman was sacked as vice-chancellor in ’99?”
Ralf’s eyes flicked towards Babcock.
“I don’t think we have a choice, in the circumstances,” the Englishman said with a shrug.
Ralf winced again. Disclosures seemed to cause him physical pain.
“Yes, we know why he left. It is our job to know such things.”
Babcock took over.
“He was caught with his trousers down, if you’ll excuse the vernacular.”
“Really?” said the colonel. “By whom?”
“By us of course,” said Ralf, emphatically. “Josef Schuman had a significantly high sex-drive. It was well known that he regularly indulged in sexual practices that may have exposed certain vulnerabilities.”
“He was a potential blackmail victim you mean?” offered the colonel.
“He was as randy as an old goat and screwed everything that moved. Bollocks before brain, that was his problem. And he wasn’t particular whose wife or daughter he was caught with either. Complaints about him littered the Bundestag.”
Ralf closed his eyes.
“The truth is that Schuman’s extra-marital affairs were appearing in the tabloids. He was making a laughingstock of the cabinet and it had to be stopped.”
“Did he jump, or was he pushed?” Conza asked.
“Oh, I think it’s safe to say that Mr Schuman did not leave voluntarily.”
“What’s the British interest in all this, Mr Babcock?” asked the colonel.
For the first time since they’d sat down, Babcock looked uncomfortable.
“Skyguard is an important British asset, Colonel.”
“Anglo-German asset,” interjected Ralf indignantly.
“Actually, it’s Anglo-German-Italian,” said Conza with a sheepish smile.
Babcock grinned.
“Quite right, Raffy. I forget sometimes. All in this together. But Skyguard is incredibly important to the Brits. It’s not just the defence angle, and God knows that’s important enough. There’s the money. Half the pension schemes in Britain rely on Skyguard shares. It’s a mainstay of the economy. Jewel in the crown, so to speak.”
“So alarm bells rang when Stolz was killed?”
“Absolutely. We need to know if there was anything sinister behind his death.”
“Do you believe there is, Colonel? Anything sinister about his death?” Ralf asked clasping his hands together.
“Not sure about ‘sinister’. But there’s plenty of unanswered questions. Why, for example did Schuman let Stolz work for Skyguard, when he knew he’d informed on his father?”
Conza caught a smile flicker across Ralf’s lips. The colonel had seen it too, but it was Babcock who responded.
“Perhaps he’d just forgiven him. The reunification thing resulted in a lot of wounds in need of healing. Maybe this was just another one. Let bygones be bygones.”
“I think that’s unlikely in these particular circumstances,” replied the colonel, never taking his eyes from the German. “Ralf, may I go back to your earlier question? You asked Lieutenant Conza whether he’d seen the documents showing Stolz had been a Stasi informer. Why did you ask that?”
Ralf’s hand movements were as measured as his voice.
“Before the Berlin Wall was demolished, the Stasi destroyed many of their records. But contrary to popular opinion, Germans aren’t always as efficient as the world thinks.”
‘So you are capable of laughing,’ thought Conza.
“A significant number of documents remained untouched, or at least capable of restoration. When you contacted us, I personally looked into what remained of the files recovered from the Stasi office in Potsdam. I found no mention of Lukas Stolz in the role of an informer, nor did I find his statement accusing Felix Schuman of spying. Hence my interest.”
“But you said yourself, many of the records were destroyed.”
“Exactly, which begs the question how did Dieter Reisman, or Dieter Stolz, as he became known, gain possession of original documents purporting to show Lukas Stolz was an informer?”
“Katherine told me Stolz had always known his son worked for the Stasi. Maybe he got hold of the records before they started destroying them?”
“That would be more believable if they were just copies. I’m not a detective, but if the originals had been removed from the Stasi repository before they started destroying them, I think someone may have noticed they’d gone missing.”
Conza suddenly felt quite inadequate.
“Again, I don’t wish to tell you how to do your job Lieutenant, but it may be worth finding out when Dieter Stolz left his letter and the Stasi file on Stolz with his solicitor. If it was from before East Germany began to disintegrate…”
“They can’t have been originals. They must have been copies. Or forgeries!” Conza erupted, still angry with himself.
Ralf started writing on a sheet of paper.
“This is the address of someone you may wish to speak to. He was a major in the Stasi in Potsdam. He served in the Brandenburg Police Force after reunification, as did many ex-Stasi. He’s quite old now, but a bottle of Asbach should help his memory.”
The colonel took the paper from Ralf’s slender fingers.
“You don’t believe it do you? You don’t think Lukas Stolz was a Stasi informer?”
Ralf considered the question for a few seconds.
“Truthfully Colonel, I have no idea whether he was or he wasn’t.”
The colonel leant forward and fixed Ralf with a stare.
“But I can guess who was.”
“Who?” said Conza, with far too much excitement.
“Josef Schuman.”
“This meeting is over gentlemen. I will arrange for someone to show you out.”
&nbs
p; 78
Café Roma, Milan, Italy
At ten o’clock on Friday morning, Giuliani received a text message from his contact Troy. It read simply ‘Coffee 13:00’. He looked at his clock and rolled over to go back to sleep. He’d been up all night.
“Fat fucking queer. What does he want now?”
◆◆◆
The policeman was already sitting in the café when Zeffirelli joined him and ordered coffee. It was twenty-past-one.
“What you got?”
‘He’s nervous,’ thought Zeffirelli, noticing the beads of sweat on the policeman’s top lip clinging to grey stubble. ‘Maybe he’s still pissed off at being outed in front of the museum queue.’
“Things are really bad at the station; the commissioner is on the warpath again. He’s running another inquisition.”
“So fucking what? Sounds like a personal problem to me. What have you dragged me down here for?”
“Forensics have put your boys Leo and Paolo at the bakery. The old man is still in a coma, but the girl will testify. She’ll hang them.”
The policeman was pale, his hands trembling as he put the cup to his lips.
“They got sloppy. I’ve sent them away for a while, no sweat. Is that it? She’ll never testify. We’ll sort her out when we need to. If we need to.”
The policeman leant forward, his voice barely a whisper.
“I know where they’re holding the Bennani boy.”
“I don’t need him anymore. I’ve sorted things out.”
“OK, that’s your call. I’m sorry I wasted your time.” He got up to leave.
“Tell me anyway,” Zeffirelli said, grabbing the policeman’s arm and pulling him back down into his seat.
He passed a piece of paper across the table, which Zeffirelli read and pushed into his breast pocket.
“The whole family’s under police protection. Isn’t that right? I couldn’t get near him if I wanted to.”
“That could be sorted.”
“How?”
“That’s my problem. But it would cost you.”
The Milan Contract Page 21